Tag: creative writing

Wordless Wednesday: Inspire Me

A few weeks ago I had a call from a friend’s brother, a person I have known since he was twelve.

“Would you be on this talk show we’re organizing?” He asked me, as a sophomore student at university in the same building where I teach. (Talk about feeling your age!)

“I always like to support students,” I said, not knowing the ambitions of their Dreamers Club.

They organized a full scale talk show with six speakers who each had an inspiring life story.

I was the writer in the lineup and dished up as much creative advice as I could.

My husband assures me I’m bad at math and much closer to the million word mark than I know. I can tell you I get better with every story I tell.

Essential Steps to Selling Books

I had an a blast in Kuwait last week with PLUMA, a writers group focused on exploring the migrant experience in the Arabian Gulf. I read a scene from The Dohmestics that was quite hard going: an almost rape scene in which those at the bottom of the pyramid compete against themselves. I’ve read from this scene before. The last time I did, the audience was stunned by sorrow into silence. This time, the group was nodding all throughout. Yes, men from the same country while abroad will take advantage of their compatriots.

Yes, women can work against her other. Or stand together in solidarity. I was comforted by the ability to talk about these harsh realities instead of shying away from them.

In the Q & A the inevitable question came: “What advice do you have for beginning writers?”

“Write.”

In all seriousness, if you haven’t written anything, don’t ask me how to get an agent or sell your books. You haven’t got one yet. If readers fall in love with your work (which is a miracle every time it happens) then they’ll want your next project. ASAP. You’ll need to keep writing.

People also ask me: “When do you write?”

“Whenever I can. Wherever I can. In the 30 minutes before a conference, skipping breakfast. Poolside during swim class. On Saturdays.”

Posted from Abu Dhabi’s Al Reem lounge.

Superb Ways to Show Without Telling

nanoIn the story of the Tortoise and the Hare, I know exactly which creature I am: the hare. This was evident when I was younger: studying a bit all semester and sleeping while my college roommate crammed all night, her Dr. Pepper’s lined up on her desk. When the exams were handed back we each had an A; hers was .5 higher than mine.

The memory of the lesson I learned that day stays with me: do a little bit at a time and you’ll be done by the deadline. This was my secret to NaNoWriMo 2014. I began the month on an overnight flight to Prague for a conference, with my laptop out, typing away. There was a week or so where I thought the story I was telling was utter rubbish; then the detective found his sidekick and sparks flew.

You’ve got a great story, I told myself, in the lead up to Thanksgiving when it was unlikely I would be able write one word, while hosting 7 adults and 7 children. 30,000 words that didn’t exist before November 1.

Then an interesting thing happened: I went through my chapter list on Saturday and Sunday, adding words to those under 1666 (the daily NaNo average).

11:30 p.m. on November 30th (the last day you can get in your 50,000 words) I uploaded my manuscript.

Yesterday I wrote another 1200 words. That hare won the race. This hare has more story to tell.

Here’s the final excerpt I’ll share in my NaNo journey.

 

Amita, Manu’s sister, is looking for her brother who was reported to have entered the country a few weeks ago. Her dismay is representative of the many families who do not hear from their relatives once they enter their host countries.

Stay tuned for more updates about this work in progress (and the title is still missing…).

PS this scene employs the infamous writing adage “Show, don’t tell” the reader what’s going on with your characters. We try to experience Amita’s confusion with her, rather than learning about it second hand.

 

——————-

 

Amita took another step forward, grateful he hadn’t pushed past her like so many other Europeans did when given half the chance. “I look for my brother,” she said. She pushed the passport copy of Manu and his approved work visa under the opening.

 

“You housemaid?” The man asked, his hands unmoving.

 

“I’m looking for Laxmi Pande,” Amita switched to Hindi.

 

The man’s narrowed gaze is why she had hoped Madam Cindy would take her to the embassy; her whiteness would have shamed him into being helpful.

 

“She not here.”

 

“My brother missing,” Amita said. “He here for three weeks. I no see him.” She managed in the English he was forcing her to speak. “Miss Laxmi she arrange contract for him.”

 

“That’s terrible,” the woman murmured behind her.

 

The man picked up the sheet of paper. There was no nametag for her to record a name, like Sir Paul had asked her to get before he left on his trip. He would have come with her but he had to go to a conference in Paris. Busy. Everyone was busy.

 

“Contracts,” he said, tossing the paper back at her.

 

“This not contract?” Amita asked in confusion. This was the document the woman had supplied the last time she visited the embassy, looking for a job for Manu. She had promised an office job, as a kitchen service man, boy as they were called here, where he would bring water, tea, coffee, or juice to those having meetings.

 

The man turned in his chair and tapped the window in the direction of one of the stations in the main room. “Contracts, there. Go see contracts.”

 

Amita picked up the copies of the visa and passport, the only tangible proof she had that her brother had made plans to join her in the Arabian Gulf. She moved through the rows of chairs to the counter the receptionist had indicated. There were two men here, one seated, the other standing and pointing out something in a stack of papers. Similar stacks rose like little towers on every surface of the room, some in chairs as well. The men in this room stopped talking when she approached. “My brother,” she said. She pressed the papers forward again. “I no hear from my brother.”