Did you see the thrilling World Cup match between Colombia and Uruguay? Or the one between Argentina and Switzerland yesterday? Are you beside yourself to watch Colombia beat Brazil (my prediction) in the quarterfinals? I can barely breathe just thinking about it.
Photo by IsakFotografi
There are personal reasons why I'm cheering for Colombia, even though they do have THE BEST DANCE MOVES. But while we palpitate about the world's best sporting event in the entire history of the entire human race, let us explore the uncanny parallels between the World Cup and what we'll call the Writer's Cup.
We've Got Passion
To say that World Cup fans are passionate is ridiculous understatement. To say that World Cup players are passionate takes that same understatement to new depths. Passion is inherent in this sport and everyone who participates in it, directly or indirectly, will experience emotions bordering on mass hysteria. Why else would over 3 billion people take time off work, call in “sick,” miss their own children's fifth birthday parties (true story!), drive mad distances to be with complete and utter strangers for hours on end, and commit all sorts of insanities just to be able to watch a group of guys kick a ball around a field?
To say that writers are passionate is an equally ridiculous understatement. The writer suffers from a near-biological need to tell stories, to express the depths of his or her soul, to express the ineffable, the unspeakable, the unimaginable, in ways that make all of the aforementioned accessible and relatable to the reader. Who else would get up before dawn and write way past midnight, skip meals, dates, parties, sometimes showers, and other elements of a normal human existence (but never the World Cup) just to fill up pages—pardon me, blank computer screens—with strings of words?
The only difference I see is that not all readers are as passionate as their counterparts in soccer, the fans—and we writers need to work on that. More passion, people! And I'm not talking romance novels.
Yes. Maybe that's what we writers really need. Imagine you're out there on that soccer field. Forget the cozy café with the little corner window seat we fight for on a daily basis. We need to write for entire stadium-fulls of people. Whole countries of people. Write as if you were James Rodriguez!
We've Got Talent & Training
The same requirements exacted upon the world's top soccer players are asked of the world's best writers. You can train all your life and become technically proficient, excellent even. But if you don't have true talent, that mystical, inherent “gift” that makes you glow from within and makes it all look easy, technique and practice will get you just so far. I reference the world's great soccer players, from Pelé and Eusébio to Messi and Rodriguez, alongside the world's great writers, from Hemingway and G.G. Márquez to Munro and Allende.
On the other hand, if you've got talent but don't bother training, practicing, honing your God-given skill to perfection, you won't be getting on that plane with the World Cup teams or standing up on stage with Alice Munro anytime soon. Even Mozart had to practice, and practice he did, starting at a wee young age.
What are you doing still reading this blog? Get thee to a keyboardery!
All the World's a Stage
All those hours of training on a soccer field. Rain or shine. Fog or searing sun. Eventually you master your technique, you build up strength and stamina, your focus sharpens, you score that perfect, breath-stopping goal. Or five.
All those hours at the keyboard. Dawn or dusk. In sickness or in health. Eventually you master your voice, you build up experience and insight, your expression sharpens, you write that stunning, heart-stopping novel. Or five.
The stage stretches equally broad for soccer player and writer alike: it's the entire world. That is your Writer's Cup.
When are you going to come out and play?
PRACTICE
If you can manage to tear yourself away from the TV screen, glue your attention to THIS screen and drop-kick a short piece from a work-in-progress or come up with a new scene. And to have some fun with it, see if you can work a ball game into your post.
And as always, be sure to referee others' posts.
Great writing tips here, thank you so much. Here’s a little story about soccer that I had been kicking around (sorry). Its title is “The Meeting.”
Weeds were overtaking the grass, thought elderly Mrs. Cooper
as she strolled throught the park; nearby, a run- down little stage, no longer
used by area musicians, served this day as an oversized goal for a few
neighborhood kids and their soccer game.
Mrs. Cooper recalled when her own children were that age. She remembered that town meeting where she
had nervously stood up and put forward her idea.
Members of the small rust belt community of Jackpine had gathered to
brainstorm, to think of ways to re-invent, revitalize their town. Mrs. Cooper
rose to speak about… speaking. The
schools weren’t teaching it. Parents
hadn’t the time or expertise to emphasize it.
And modern society’s trends weren’t inspiring it. Why not, suggested Mrs. Cooper, invest in a
school or a program, led by local business professionals, to make Jackpine
famous for the quality of its young people, and their ability to impress employers
everywhere. Her short but impassioned
presentation was received politely by the audience, who nevertheless endorsed
the less ambitious band shell instead.
A ball with white and black hexagons rolled up to the old
woman’s feet, followed soon by a boy who stopped 20 feet away. “Excuse me lady,” said the child as his eyes
met Mrs. Cooper’s, “would you mind getting that for us?”
Mrs. Cooper flicked the ball with the side of her foot and It
rolled gently toward the boy. “Not at
all, young man,” she said with a smile. “Not
at all.”
Very interesting story. The lady was ignored by the townspeople for her suggestion but had an opportunity to connect with a young child, to build on the child’s interest, talent and passion to achieve her goal. Nice, Kip.
Many thanks for all feedback!
I like your writing. Your word choice and the way you use your words is done well.
Aww, I just love Mrs. Cooper. What a charming lady! The town’s name, “Jackpine”, is really cool. Very original. I also liked the way you described the soccer ball, “a ball with white and black hexagons”, without calling it a soccer ball. I hope to hear more about Mrs. Cooper. : )
Hi Birgitte: Thanks for the great post! I believe the World Cup has stirred passion in many over the past few weeks. And it is passion which creates the best writing, an idea, a character, a location near the writer’s heart. When we find the right words to define and share the passion, writing resonates and inspires. Passing the ball with skill and timing encourages team participation.
Very welcome. The World Cup does indeed stir passions, and it’s done it since it started. There’s something gorgeously, primally simple about this game. Goes all the way back to the Maya and their ball games… it’s wired into our biology.
Shadow entered the briefing room two minutes early. Commander Tower stood at the head of the table. Several agents shouldered him on either side, like body guards. Rouge, arms folded, leaned a hip against the table and nodded to Shadow.
He looked around for the person Tower had mentioned: the girl. Shadow hadn’t caught her name, but he had been told she was only fourteen.
She sat between two standing agents with her hands folded in her lap. Raven black hair, straight and thick, fell almost to her elbows. Perhaps realizing she was being watched, she lifted her head and met his gaze.
Her eyes were a stark, deep green. So large and luminous they seemed to glow from within. Despite her tense shoulders, she smiled at him, revealing a single dimple in her left cheek.
I would love some critique on this. Thanks!
I thought there was a feeling of tension in this that made me interested.
I agree!
Thanks!
Thank you!
Nice character descriptions. As I was reading I wondered what each person’s interest in the others was — what brought them together? Of course that would be explained elsewhere in your work, but perhaps a word or phrase here or there as a reminder? I’m not much of a critic but hope that helps.
Yes that definitely helps. Thanks!
He held his head up with his hand, and feigned interest when a player got a home run. He never liked games. It felt like there was a magnifying glass between him and the sun frying him as sweat poured down his head and left a wetness on the armpits of his shirt, which made the shirt stick to him.
Through his high school years, his parents prodded him to sign up for sports. “You know everyone else in the family has had a lot success in athletics. I’m just saying you could give it a try.” His father said.
“It would probably be good for your self esteem to be involved in something.” His mother said.
“I know, it’s just not for me.” His head faced the ground.
“You think someone like him would get in? They would take one look at him..” His brother Jared jeered.
“Shut up.”
Their mother frowned, “That’s enough Jared. You still need to clean your room.” Jared stared at her wide eyed. “Now.” His shoulders dropped and his face had why me written on it. He turned and walked away, snickering till he turned into his room.
In the morning Joe would dress. The clothes he had were lacking. But that was because when you have to wear larger than average clothes the selection available to you is limited. They don’t make cool clothes in size fat. In fact he couldn’t even shop at most shops, while everyone else was getting their clothes from Macy’s or The Buckle, he was always stuck in the two racks assigned to people of his size at JCPennys.
But it turned out he did try for baseball. If nothing else at least his parents would leave him alone finally. Everyone stared at him as he walked on the field. His baseball outfit looked two sizes small as it snuggled his stomach, squeezing it and revealing its roundness. He just looked ahead and pretended they weren’t there.
It was his turn to bat. The ball was pitched and he swung his bat fast and he spun around. The air moved by his head as the ball whizzed by him into the catchers mit. The pitcher threw another one. This time his bat slapped the ball and skipped along the ground out past the bases.
He took off, and his large legs pounded the ground, he pumped his arms. As he reached first base his arms reached the sky in triumph.
Hi. Nice story overall. The travails of those who do not fit in always inspire me. I wasn’t sure about the switch from past tense to present, maybe in your next draft…thanks.
Thank you for what you said. Okay I will look for tense issues. I do have a tendency to switch tenses that I always have to watch for. And I will also work on some awkward sentences on teh next draft. Thanks again.
I posted the very first section of my WIP on Would You Rather, for Writers. This is the next bit. Reviews are always appreciated!
I hate grocery stores with a burning passion. I think it’s my dad’s fault. Back when we still went to church he brought me with him to Arnell’s to get lunch every single Sunday after mass. “It’ll only be five minutes.” “We’ll be in and out in a jiffy.” It always took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of standing in the frozen foods section freezing my butt off. That’s where I found myself, watching my mom sorting through stacks of waffle boxes. “Which do you want honey, the cinnamon toast or the brown sugar french toast?”
“I don’t care Mom, let’s just get out of here.”
She tsked at me. “Hang on a minute honey, I’m almost done.”
I groaned. “Mom, I’m cold, can I go wait by the cash registers?”
She sighed and tapped a nail against a box of cinnamon toast waffles. “Alright. I’ll be there in a moment.” I wrapped my arms tighter around myself and hurried back the way we came. Arnell’s was kinda small but the manager set it up like an obstacle course. Racks of granola bars and mineral water in the middle of the aisles divided the path into twisty corridors. Boxes of fruit juice were everywhere on the floor and sometimes one of the guys from the deli would come out of nowhere and run you over. The heavier your shopping cart was, the less likely you were to make it out alive.
I was almost at the cash registers when I heard a nasal voice voice say, “Alex!” Oh no. It was Mr. Roberts. He stopped his shopping cart next to me and grinned. “And how are you today, young lady?”
“I’m fine.” Mr. Roberts taught biology at Oak Ridge High. As far back as I could remember, he had always looked just like the frogs we disected in middle school. He was my height and kind of fat; his big round head was covered in warts and a flap of skin hung off his neck and wobbled when he talked.
“How’s your dad doing? I haven’t seen him since our barbecue last month.” Mr. Roberts was my dad’s best friend. My dad was a history teacher at the high school with him, and they had gone to the same college. They had this kind of on going competition to see who was the nerdiest. It was pretty much always a tie.
“He’s doing fine.”
“Is he still working on that insane project to record the entire history of Oak Ridge?”
“Yeah, he is.”
Mr. Roberts wheezed a laugh. I immediately stopped breathing through my nose. “Well tell him I said good luck with it! Have you received your schedule for this year yet?”
“Yeah, just the other day.”
“And who do you have?”
“Um…Ms. Finley for English, Mr. Schmidt for math, Ms. Lopez for Spanish, Mr. Garrett for history…that’s all I can remember.”
“You don’t remember who have for freshman biology?” There was a hopeful gleam in his eye.
“Uh, actually, I, uh, have you.”
He grinned. Mr. Roberts had brown teeth and they were slimy. Gross. “Wonderful! You’ll love my class! It’s very instructive, especially for an inquisitive young lady like yourself.”
“Um, yeah, I, uh, have to go, my mom is probably waiting at the cash register.” I started walking backwards toward the front of the store.
“Tell her I said hello too!” he said over his shoulder.
Mom got to the register just as I did. “I thought you said you were coming up here to wait for me.”
“I ran into Mr. Roberts. He says hi.”
Mom sighed. “You know, he’s perfectly nice and he’s your dad’s good friend, but Mr. Roberts could use a trip to the dentist.” You’re telling me Mom. You’re telling me.
Good characterization. I get a good idea of what she does not like.
I felt uncomfortable for Mr. Roberts, which to me indicates the writing was good — I got into the story.
Humorous. “I don’t care Mom, let’s just get out of here.” Loved that line. I’ve felt that way a time or two while shopping with a family member. 🙂 I also really liked the first sentence. It caught my attention. One question though. You mentioned it being the “dad’s fault,” but then you only mentioned the mom shopping.
It’s her dad’s fault referring to something that happened years ago. In this particular instance she’s with her mom
Okay. 🙂
I cannot do it! I’m sorry. I can’t get excited about a sport, not even one so democratic and international as soccer.
Love that! LOL! Brutal honesty. Nothing wrong with that. But if you ever get invited to go to a live sporting event (as long as it’s not golf), or even a backyard BBQ with a flatscreen set up on the porch with a bunch of friends, GO. Just for the sake of it. Even if you can’t feel the thrill, plug into the thrill of everyone around you. Otherwise how can you write about it?
That’s what great writers do. We’re journalists of life.
I will say this: I actually enjoy live sporting events. Somehow, it is fun and interesting to be part of the crowd. But watching it on TV? Caring about the outcome? It’s just not my thing. 🙂
I’m the same. However….. About ten years ago a friend had special booth sponsors tickets (from her work) for an Aussie Rules Footy Game.
She invited me to come along. I said ” no way. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather not do. Sit in a stadium with manic obsessed fans, yelling and screaming.”
“Oh please come with me” she replied.
So I relented, agreed and half-heatedly went along.
It was like being a contemporary ‘thunder dome’; a ferocious modern colosseum.
The vibe was incredible to observe, note, feel. The bodies on the field were toned to perfection, muscly, buff, rippling and sleek with perspiration.
I was awestruck by the magnificence and athleticism of the human machine. I didn’t care who won, hey I don’t even know the rules to the game. I was reminded of the amazing capacity of this physical body. I was stirred by the passion, support and comrade ride of the supporters. I was touched by the swell and surge of 1,000’s of people releasing emotion, cheering from their hearts, holding their breath, clapping and stamping their nature.
The stadium roared with humans: primal nature and the basic root urges to hunt, seek, explore, focus, persist. Mostly though the exquisitely honed and almost intuitive and deeply rooted knowing and connection between the players within their teams.
I’ve never been again. And it’s likely I never will. Yet that night, that one-off experience, blew wind in to my creative sails in gusts and squalls I did not expect.
Even now I smile at the memory.
I’m so not into that sport, but man them bodies looked good. 🙂
Just thought I’d share. And if you get the chance – one day – consider giving it a go.
Love Dawn
I meant to say camaraderie… 🙂
Wow that sounds like you got a lot out of your experience. My dad would watch football everyday on the tv and I was always itchy when it came on, never could get myself to give it even a try. I am not sure why.
But I think you have tapped into what makes sports exciting. Maybe at some point I will change my mind and tune into it a bit and see.
I especially liked the team working as one. That sounds interesting.
My WIP is a children’s book set in northern Minnesota on the brink of the Great Depression. I’ve benefitted from your comments on previous sections I’ve posted. Fred is thirteen years old. This is his first day at a rural one-room schoolhouse.
Done eating their lunches, the boys run out to their makeshift dirt diamond, its bases marked by flat rocks, and choose teams for baseball. They all want to be like Babe Ruth, the Home Run King. He plays for the New York Yankees. They read about him in the newspaper, although it is often a week before the news reaches their rural outpost.
Their equipment is simple, a bare board and a homemade baseball that has a walnut at its core wrapped in layers of string. The surface of the ball is tightly covered with the tongue of a worn-out leather shoe.
With only sixteen boys in the school, each of them — even the six-year-olds — are assigned a team. The players who cover the bases handle the outfield too. The game stops for a lost ball because they have only one. Then everyone searches beyond the outfield until someone retrieves it.
“Can you pitch or catch?” Alex asked Fred.
“Sure,” said Fred. “But, I’m a better pitcher.”
“Just like ‘The Babe,’ huh?” Alex said. “Well, Jimmy Jamison pitches for our team. Maybe you should volunteer to catch.”
“Sure,” Fred said.
I like the setting of your story. Historical fiction is awesome. 🙂 One thing I noticed though is that you switched from present tense to past tense when changing to dialogue. I’m also curious about what age range you are writing for. This sounds more complex than a children’s book to me. I’m not sure, but it sounds more like middle school range.
Thank you, Joy. You identified one of my big problems, switching tenses. I edited it and I hope it is correct now. My target audience is third through sixth grade.
I like that you are doing a piece that captures sports from another time. It has a nostalgic feeling to it.
Thanks, Sandra. I’m trying to get the courage to write a three inning game
Oh that sounds like that would be interesting. I hope you do.
GO FOR IT MARILYN!!
i hate all you
I hate birgitte Rasine
soccer is stu8pid
ttyl
your supid losers
STUPID STPID
I HATE EVA RODSE
TTYL L00SERS
BLA BLA BLA STUPIS PII