When I interviewed and agreed to copyedit the book, I was confident. I mean, it's not every day you can talk about your passion for grammar.
A few weeks later when I sat with a 40,000 word document open on my computer, I was quite intimidated. I was the last person to read the book before it went to print.
If I tried to fix a comma splice but accidentally deleted a space between words, the book would be printed like that. It's not like a blog post where you can fix quickly. A book. A printed book. In a bookstore. With my stupid missing space.
photo by epSos.de
Spinning nervously in an office chair, I explained my fear to a friend during a conference call I strategically scheduled during my editing time as a stall tactic.
“Think of it as a growing experience,” he told me. “The question is: do you want to grow?”
Growth
The only way to get better at your craft is to keep going even when things get hard. Just as diamonds are formed under pressure, so is good writing.
Practicing every day, continuing even when it's hard, and struggling as a writer are vital in order to get better.
If submitting a short story didn't come with the fear of rejection, the acceptance letter wouldn't be so sweet.
If writing your novel was easy, seeing it on a bookshelf wouldn't be as rewarding.
Do you want to grow as a writer? Are you willing to push forward through the challenges required for your growth?
PRACTICE
Challenge yourself to write something different today. If you normally write in first person, try third. If you typically write as a female, try a male. If you always write one genre, try a different one. Grow.
I can’t begin to imagine the fear that could come from being the last person to read a book before printing. Well done in showing such courage! Writing as a male? I’ll try that now …
He put his hands in his pocket to hide shaking fingers. No need to announce to the world that he was afraid.I can do this, he thought to himself.
I’ll stop there for now. Baby steps …
You’re off to a great start, Miranda. 🙂
Oh my goodness, what did he need to do?? i really want to know….was he going to ask a boss for a raise? Ask the love of his life to marry him? Face his nemesis??
More steps, more steps!!!
Oh, you can’t leave it there, it’s too cliffhanger-y. I’m making up words now…
Ha! That reminds me of something that happened in one of my former work places. We put out national tests, and a month or so after the test went out, (after having gone through at least 11 people) someone noticed that in one place, Greek had been written as Geek, without anyone catching it…
Go for it, Katie. I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Writing-wise, I’ve written as a male and as a female, first person and third person, and in numerous genres. At my writing class they always laugh at how they never know what to expect when I read another work aloud. My big hurdle, is sending my babies out, mostly because I have no clue where to send them… Although I have one piece scheduled to be published on the 20th, that is something that I was asked to write. It’s not even being published in English! I wrote it in English, but it was translated into Slovak. Is that weird, or is that weird? I’ll mull over your assignment and write later.
Good for you, Mirelba! Today’s practice for you is going to be researching places to submit something that’s polished. Bonus points if you actually submit. 😉
Me and my big mouth 🙁
It is 2:30 a.m. here, but I finished polishing 2 pieces, and submitted them both. Thanks Katie. I needed that push. 2012 I began to plod. 2013 I begin to soar. (or so I hope…)
Yeah!! Well done, friend! Keep up the good work.
Thanks. Since this is a publication that pays, I now await the rejection slip, so I can learn to get over that as well and continue submitting. 😉
You have to start somewhere. It’s all part of growing.
hundred percent
Go to duotrope. It’s a site that lists hundreds of publications and what they are looking for. It’s a godsend. It’s free but they do ask for small donations.
Thanks Marianne, I’ll check that too.
How does it compare to Writer’s Market?
Whoops I just replied to this with a post that referred you to duotrope, and i said in that post that duotrope was free. Then I went to check it out again myself and it’s no longer free. It’s $5.00 per month which is still cheap. It’s a great service. I guess they just got tired of everyone using it and not paying for it.
Congratulations Mirelba! I’d love to read (in English) what you’ve written.
That’s funny- in my writing group, someone asked me to bring it to her in Slovak :-). I could email it to you if I had your email… Don’t know how to do that here.
I’d love to see it! My email is cantrell.marla4@gmail.com. Thank you.
Great post. I hate the idea that my precious first novel will contain grammatical errors. But no matter how many times you proofread, there’s always the possibility of a mistake or two. I just hope it’s not more than that!
I hate that too. To eliminate more errors, make sure you hire a professional editor rather than just editing yourself.
Loved this. This is the difference between a pro and an amateur. Well done, Katie!
Thanks, Jeff!
Hi Katie!
Thank you for the timely post. It was just what I needed to get my sorry tush in gear.
Before reading your words, I was sitting before my laptop, attempting to conjure more story to my story. I got up, made a cup of joe, stared out at the birds that nestled in the recesses of our Christmas tree. Itook another sip of coffee, and returned to my seat.
I sat there, and no words came forth. I then checked my email, and there was your wonderful post. So now it’s time to get off my keister and compose something. Anything.
Thank you for the impetus to keep going. And I will try a different genre as well.
Now, back to work…..
Take care, and here’s to a successful 2013, one filled with much growth!
Paul
Haha now go write. 😉 Let me know how it turns out.
Sorry. That, of course, should have read, ‘I took another sip…’ Good thing that wasn’t going to print…. : )
Paul
This is my second practice, yay! I’ve written for a bit in present tense as a female. It’s different:
The little girl is a cheetah on the Serengeti, running faster than anyone on the entire earth has ever run before. It’s not her physical speed that separates her. There’s a panic in her eyes and she’s sprinting as if her life depends on it. Perhaps it does. She has a look of determination on her face (with eyes slightly too close together) that screams to passersby “Stay out of my way! I have to make it!”
She turns the corner onto Elm and barrels directly into a baby stroller. It flips backwards; the mother frantically tries to catch the handle before her twins spill onto the sidewalk. The girl barely notices, picks herself up, yells a hasty “sorry!” behind her, and continues down the block. Her forehead is a pitcher by this point, pouring sweat down her long face and into her brown eyes, blurring her vision, daring her to continue the journey. She feels everyone and everything is out to get her as she runs to salvation. But she read in a book once that excursions to Mecca are supposed to be full of “trials and tribulations”. Her brain smiles and she feels more important than the people around her. She wipes her face with the back of an equally sweaty hand, and hunkers down for the remaining block.
After twenty-four more steps, she realizes (when scratching the knee with the mosquito bite) that her leg is bleeding. ”No time, no time, no time!” she screams to herself, haphazardly smearing the blood with a hand and sticking the hand in her shorts pocket. She hopes her mom won’t notice the stain if it’s on the inside.
She focuses back on her journey and, with a start, realizes she’s at her destination. Her hands are shaking with anxiety, anticipation, and all the other ‘A’ words. The place was so far, she didn’t think she’d actually make it. Her mission isn’t complete, but a smile (with several missing teeth) creeps in nonetheless.
Throwing open the door, she walks in and scurries to the man in the weird uniform. Arriving, she’s so out of breath, she has no choice but to place her hands on her knees. She can’t speak. But she must! Her life depends on it! Taking a deep breath, she gathers all the remaining energy in her little body, slams a dollar bill on the counter, and yells hoarsely “A small cherry Slurpee please!”
Haha this is wonderful.
Great job! And welcome to The Write Practice. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks so much! And thanks to everyone for the comments. It’s much appreciated! I’m excited to be here! I use lots of exclamation points!!
That’s funny!! Its good as well, you captured that little girls desperate hurry really well!
Such wonderful images. I love how you describe her head as a pitcher. There’s so much else to love here, like her hand in her pocket. Great work.
I agree, this piece has great descriptions in it. Good practice NewbieWriter.
Engaging images- so much desperation for a small cherry slurpee! 🙂 Keep it up, newbie.
Really excellent imagery here Newbie. Very well done.
Newbie, I love this. I can totally see this “tomboy” little girl.
The rock fell. That was
all she knew. It fell from a bridge to
the Plymouth below. The one that held
her Henry. He was coming home from work.
She had called. Distraught. Over
her new exercise class. Booty Camp. How silly it seemed now. The way she cried in the parking lot, covered
in sweat, her hair soaked, her sports bra straining against what? Her perfect breasts? No, it was all fat, had been for years
now. But still she dreamed. Her body like a vision. The long line of her legs peeking through an
open trench coat. Her cleavage supported
by nothing but the lace fabric of her bra, more for show, really, than support.
But that was not who she was. She was a 37-year-old fatty, steeped in salsa
from the local Mexican joint, filled with Coca-Cola from Sonic’s happy hour,
flush with frozen coconut cake she ate from the box, that she got from the
Walmart Super Center.
And so she called Henry.
She wept, great tears as if someone had died, when really she had only
awakened to her true self. “Come get me,”
she said, certain he would. And Henry
left his cubicle at the call center, where he took complaints from unhappy
customers all day. He grabbed his
coat. He tucked his scarf in his coat
pocket, and he left.
On Drewey Avenue, the road ducks under a bridge built in
1933. There’s a plague marking the
event. He drove under and a rock the
size of a newborn fell down, crashed through his windshield. Split his skull.
She is sitting now in a chapel inside Good Samaritan
Hospital with a priest and a rabbi, and laughs.
The beginning of a joke, she thinks.
But then they tell her Henry is dead.
The priest says passed, the rabbi says crossed over. But they mean dead. He is gone.
She is shaking now, the coffee in her right hand a little
tsunami inside the Styrofoam cup. There
is Jesus on the cross at the front of the chapel. He looks down at her, awash in his own pain.
They want her to identify Henry, but she stalls. “Call my mother,” she says. “She’ll know what to do.” She is suddenly fifteen again. A ward of her mother’s again. A teen, unafraid to say she cannot or will
not do what’s necessary.
When her mother comes, they take the elevator down to the
basement. They pass the cafeteria. They go down the long hall. A cafeteria and a morgue on the same
floor. Another joke, she thinks, but
this time she only shivers, nothing will ever be funny again.
On a table covered in marble is her Henry. She can tell by the chambray shirt he wore
this morning. By the wedding ring that
bites into his finger; he was not willing to take it off when he began to gain
weight.
She is wearing her Booty Camp shirt. She is wearing her stretchy pants that strain
at her thighs. Her mother covers her
mouth with her hand. Her mother willed
herself to look at Henry’s face, and she is paying for it.
She sways in the dank place.
The light is like comets that shoot from every corner. He feet shuffle and she finds the door, and
then the bathroom, and finally the tile floor, where she will stay until
someone bigger than her moves her out. And
who, she thinks, is bigger than me?
Marla, I was eating an apple as I read this until I got about to the waiting room part when I realized I’d eaten most of the core and a significantly bruised part I would have avoided had I looked up to see it. Great practice.
Katie,
Thank you so much! And thanks for making me laugh.
Marla
Well done. So sad.
Thank you.
Oh Marla, that is so sad. But you drew me in.
Thank you!
Wow Marla this is impressively captivating. I love the way you fill in small details it makes everything seem so real.
Thanks so much, Karl. I wrote fast and didn’t stop to think. It was a fun exercise.
Hey Marla – gorgeous description. flush with frozen coconut cake she ate from the box. loved it 😉
Suzie,
Thank you! Also, no wine! Did you notice?
What a sad story, a sad beginning made sadder by the death, the sadder by the ending. It’s got that touch of humor that keeps it real, and your usual great details. I particularly like “The priest says passed, the rabbi says crossed over. But they mean dead. “
Marianne,
Thank you. I’m being tortured in a new exercise class. I think it informed what I was writing. It’s so good to hear from you!
I needed to hear this today. I have a script on my computer that has been patiently waiting MONTHS for me to get up the nerve to even look at it again, let alone start editing it. Thanks for the inspiration. 🙂
Yeah! Let me know how it goes!
I normally write from a woman’s POV so today I tried a man’s. I picked a young man because I don’t usually write from a teen’s voice either. So here is my practice.
She was beautiful. That was all he could think whenever he looked at
her. He had no idea why she was so nice to him, always lending him paper for
his notes or nudging him awake if he started to doze in class. He was surprised
a girl like her would bother giving him the time of day. He was, supposedly,
troubled. Because his hair was jet black and he had a couple of facial
piercings and wore black jeans and tees, somehow word had gotten around that he
was a goth or emo or something. Like he cared about social groups at all; but
he wouldn’t bother to explain to anyone that he was colour blind. But
generally, nice beautiful girls didn’t give the time to someone who looked like
trouble. And God, was she beautiful. Long, tawny hair and crystal blue eyes. She
had perfect skin, he had never once seen her with the slightest imperfection on
her honey skin, and he paid attention. He paid real close attention. And her
mouth, he reflected as he shifted in uncomfortably seat, was probably the most
stunning feature on her lovely face. Pink and it rose petal soft. Beautiful, he
thought again as a smile curved his lips. She caught his eyes just then and
smiled, and he felt his break a little at the sight of her lovely smile.
This is neat, Giulia. (By the way, I had a friend from high school who spelled her name that way). I love your description of the girl’s face.
Thanks Katie! I appreciate the feedback. You’re probably one of the few people I know who can correctly read my name then. Though as I get older, I encounter more people who can, which is nice 🙂 I just noticed there are a few typos in that piece, I apologize for not catching them. My heads writes ahead of me sometimes.
Please don’t ever worry about typos here. This is a safe place for raw work–typos and all. (My brain moves faster than my fingers too).
Thanks Katie 🙂
This is wonderful. You described perfectly how a guy might feel and act, we aren’t so different, men and women, are we? 😉 I particularly liked the line “He paid real close attention.” That added some emphasis and I knew it was important. Good work Giulia.
Thanks very much Karl. It’s good to know I got the male persceptive correct.
this sounds like the beginning of a romance. I wonder why she likes him. I don’t trust her in a way.
LOL it’s the beginning of nothing actually, just something that came into my head. But it’s interesting that you don’t trust her, I’m wondering what she could be up to if she isn’t trustworthy now…Thanks for the feedback!
The description of the lips is gorgeous. Such good writing.
Thanks Marla 😀
That little detail about “not bothering” to explain that he’s colour blind is so typically “young man”. My son tells me that, “he can’t be bothered”. Really, he’s afraid. I love it.
Thank you Audrey! I appreciate the feedback 🙂
Ooh, nice!! I love a bit of romantic writing!! I like the fact he wears black because he is colour blind!
I’m comfortable writing in 1st person and a creative writing course taught me that in 1st person the reader will feel closer to the character, so I’ve stuck with that. To try something different I’m going to do my next short in 3rd person about a teenage girl… as a gay man in my late 20’s there is probably no demographic I understand less than the teenage girl… haha. Well here’s my practice with no editing. Give it to me straight 🙂
Inside the double doors she saw a small stack of novels. Stephen King, Ira Levin, Terry Pratchett. Why was she reading Terry Pratchett? What a crazy woman. Crazy yes, odd even but nothing incriminating. In the next cabinet were some weird little things and three drawers occupied half the cabinet space. She opened the top drawer and her eyes lit up. “Bazinga,” she said out loud not knowing what it meant but she always wanted to say that. Plastic baggies, razor blades, hypodermic needles were littered in the little drawer. That explained a lot; she was probably coming down earlier, going through withdrawal or something. That was why she was in such a hurry to get the social worker out the door. She was frustrated and experiencing intense cravings, that’s why she yelled at Aura and that’s why she left. Surely she needed more drugs. Aunt Candy didn’t have a job, why on Earth would she leave the house at 5 in the afternoon when there was a house full of food? Oh lord, Aura thought. That meant she’d be coming back high out of her mind and acting all weird. Social services is going to love this. They’d have no choice but to find Aura a new home; no sane agency is going to let a child (is 16 still considered a child?) live under the care of a drug addicted maniac. “But they aren’t sane,” Aura thought, but shook that and decided to lay low in her bedroom until everything boiled over. No dinner with Candy, no family time, no puzzles and no female bonding. Lay low and catch her in the act, then pounce. Call Mr. Anderson, tell him about the drugs and then Candy would be arrested and Aura would be free. Awww yeah.
In her room she sat on the mattress, holding the acoustic guitar that had “Gypsy” painted in purple fingernail polish on the body. Gypsy was a keepsake: proof that Aura’s father was a good man who did good things for his daughter. She played her favorite songs: The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylon, Eric Clapton. She got lost in the music and for a little while she forgot about Candy, about the foster care, and the little clock on the stool that ticked too loud.
Not going to lie, when I got to the word “Bazinga,” I read it aloud and literally laughed out loud.
Nice! I don’t remember where I saw that word but I know I wanted to use it.
The Big Bang theory. Sheldon says it all the time 🙂
Weird, I’ve never seen that show! But one or more of my friends probably do.
Oh my gosh. You need to see that show (not that you should EVER watch TV instead of reading a book or anything). Really, though, it’s a great show.
Oh, it’s hysterical. If you read comic books, you need to watch this show.
I like that Aura was able to piece together all of the day’s events and connect her aunt’s using to her behaviours. Girls are good at that at any age. I also like that she’s able to retain some of her “childish” qualities–acting silly and losing herself in an activity she loves. Good job Karl.
Thanks for taking the time and giving feedback, Giulia. It means a lot!
No problem Karl 🙂
I like this Karl, good for you trying a new perspective and as for teenage girls – I still have that mindset at nearly —-oops neal=rly let my age out. Shhh don’t tell anyone but in a couple of years I’ll be 50
This is well written I think. If flows well and the voice is very believable.
This is wonderful. I love the guitar part the best.
Great! I love that little shadow of doubt “but they aren’t sane,: That would be exactly the kind of distrust a teenager gilr who’s been passed around various unsatisfactory caretakers would think. It would be great to see how this story goes now.
I’ve actually finished it if you’d be interested.
If anyone’s interested, I have since finished this story.
Don’t know if this is consistent but aiming for 1st person male:
“I didn’t do it, mate, honest,” I blustered as best I could, but the odds were against me. Her words had been entered into the guy’s head first. There is, in my opinion, an order in people’s heads. What they hear first they believe and then it is up to the poor suckers who come after to change minds.
My past didn’t do me any favours either but I didn’t steal his bike. She must have it stashed someplace. But then if I go looking for it, he’s going to think it was me anyway. I didn’t want to dob her in, she deserved a break and anyway there are the rules of burglary to think of.
Mum and dad taught me the rules, theu used to do the factories before they all closed down. Do not steal from family and friends. That was the first one. Most of my mates have nowt anyway, but still it stops you picking a mate’s pocket on a night out when you’ve no money left for the chipper.
Granny Gooseman, who was she again. I delve back in my mind, she was dad’s sister’s foster mother and the best shoplifter I had ever known. She taught me about when to walk away. No matter how much planning was put in sometimes it is best to sit back and watch events happen. The next rule was taught by accident but I would remember it till I die. Do not finger anyone for anything.
I was four or five and Johnnie Mahon had stolen my crayon at school, I told the teacher and he got the cane. Mrs Mahon came round to the house and there was war and then Granny explained to me how I would never have the trust of those around me if I went dobbing them in all over.
So here I am, knowing she has done it, knowing I ain’t done it. Unable to tell this guy the truth. It has been years since I left my family and the family business, I don’t steal no more and yet it looks more and more likely I am going to go down for this bike. Sure I have done so much without getting caught it feels right to be fingered for something. I begin accepting the inevitable.
This is great Suzie. I like how you explore all the avenues of thievery; I love that this character has the rights and wrongs memorized! Fantastic.
I love the convoluted logic of this Suzie. I do believe that when someone is blamed by someone else the blame usually sticks or at least causes doubt in the mind of the person who was wronged. It makes sense.
I love how you showed the internal struggle of this guy, Suzie.
I love that a world filled with shoplifters is the norm for your narrator. What a wonderful job. I love Granny. Great writing.
You did a really good job inverting the usual moral order Suzie.
In my head he sounds like a cockney roughian!!Great job, and really good story!
So it’s much of my usual, but in first person and with a female narrator. Enjoy.
I am the daughter of the king, sworn protector of the country, and a knight in my own right. I have fought beside my brothers, as well as my siblings, and I have known fear better than a mother knows her children. When the winds blew down the Tower of Hyranth, I was the one who summoned them. In the Final Night, before the God Emperor was struck down, it was my father and I who brought back the day. I am Je’ann the Quaking Steps. Je’ann the Bosom Prince. I am Je’ann the Fighter and Je’ann the Soft Kiss.
I have never spent time at court, but on this long night, I am forced to sit and listen to my brother discuss my wedding day as if it were some battle plan. My father says that a good knight knows the court as well as the battlefield. I suppose that makes me more of a warrior, less of a lady. I am okay with that.
The man to my left is Count Eddard, my betrothed. What I know of courtly manner would make Eddard seem a peasant. He sits, nearly his entire body hunched over the feasting table, elbows propping him up, his long red beard dipping into his soup. I assume that he has yet to notice, as his eyes are honed intently on my breasts. I flick his nose and he snorts, snapping back to reality.
“I’m sorry, brother, you were saying?” I ask.
Lesm is the most patient of my brothers and fairest of hair. He smiles and waves the interruption aside. “I was saying we’ll need to make for you a grand wedding.”
“I have no love for ceremony.”
“No you do not, I will give you that.” Lesm laughs. “But the kingdom will want a dress and a show and a story. It is part of your role as heir to impress upon them a sense of wonder in your every action.”
I pull Eddard’s beard from his soup bowl before I am forced to cut the damn thing off. I give his beard a solid tug for good measure and he immediately straightens his posture. “I think I have impressed the populace well enough. This is my day and I intend to take it.”
“Fair enough. I know better than to argue with you once you’ve made up your mind.” Lesm leans back in his chair and smiles his chummy smile. The only smile he has.
Eddard wipes soup from his lips and leans back as well. “In my country-”
“We are not in your country, Eddard. Do not forget it,” I say. Heaven forbid we should wind up anywhere as awful as the Northern Shivers. I would rather walk the blind paths of the Final Night again than set one foot in those blasted wastes. Better to be done with this marriage and ruling from afar than waste one damn soldier fighting in that God-awful labyrinth.
She sounds like a very strong character. Jeff your writing is so eloquent and matter-of-fact it’s a wonder you’re simply practicing!
Thanks Karl! Yeah, I really should be focusing on getting something done that I can publish, but alas most days I am so exhausted from my job, it’s difficult to focus on my career.
Well, she’s a feisty one, all right. You write really well, Jeff. Great job crafting a female.
Thank you so much Katie 🙂 I tried to focus on writing a person, not so much a woman, to keep her from being a stereotype and to do my best to avoid causing any offense. I always worry when writing outside of my own…class? persona? When writing someone I am not, that I will muck it all up.
I understand and struggle with the same thing. I’ve learned that sometimes you just have to go for it and make changes as necessary later.
Agreed. First drafts aren’t usually about perfect characterization. They’re about discovery.
You continue to amaze me. I love that you can create an entire world with what seems like little effort. I also adore the language here, and of course your narrator.
Thank you so much for the compliments Marla! I’m glad I was able to impress you.
Jeff, I LIke. Want more. I guess that’s how Eddard would grunt wouldn’t he? Love the way you’re creating a different place. A lot like Ursual Le Guin, one of my favourite authors. I’m already seeing all kinds of trouble for our feisty girl. If you’re presaging future tension, ou might increase the tension by showing Eddard just the tiniest bit upset.
Thanks Audrey. Were I to write this story, the tension would not come from Eddard though. She is marrying him specifically because it is an easier means of taking over his country. Likely the tension would come from her own harsh manner and inability to get along with other human beings. Also a dragon.
Just a dragon. No big deal.
I guess we know who wears the trousers in THAT relationship!! This is the kind of story that makes me want to read more – why doesn’t she care about marrying the bearded slob, will she find someone who sets her heart on fire, will she have to go back to her husbands country like it or not? great story!
Thanks Kate, I’m glad you liked it 🙂
Think I might try sex-ambiguous narrator and see how achievable that is 🙂
That could actually be an interesting read