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| I blame the dog. Seriously. He's cute, but I blame him. |
I'm in the middle of a YA manuscript right now called THE MEMORY OF THINGS and I was at 30K when November started. So I thought, hey, what the heck, I'll unofficially try to Nanowrimo (yes, I'm using it as a verb) the second 30K with the slew of other writers Nano'ing along. What better incentive to get the thing D-O-N-E, DONE, right?
Yeah, right.
It's November 15 and I've written another 7K in two weeks.
Repeat after me: I, Gae Polisner, am LAME.
Hmmm. Sub out the *I* for "you" when repeating.
So, here's the thing.
I blame the dog (doesn't everyone blame the dog?)
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| Second pass pages = going thru with a fine toothed comb. |
and a bunch of Skype visits (though those were rewarding and fun!).
I blame facebook.
Oh, dear lord, how you ruin me, facebook.
Fine, fine. In short, I blame me.
At any rate, if you are Nano'ing or even fake-trying to Nano like me, and haven't been comforted, buoyed or otherwise entertained by Chuck Wendig's posts on Nanowrimo'ing, you don't know what you are missing.
I happen to be stuck RIGHT IN THE MUDDY MIDDLE, so this one HIT THE SPOT more than you know.
I worship the Nano ground that man walks on.
So, since it's Friday, and since I've been trying to put up at least one Friday Feedback per month, especially for those Teachers Write! campers who are still plugging away and looking for a place to connect (oooh, I get to see a bunch of you NEXT WEEK at NCTE!!), I figured today was as good a Friday as any. You know, you're all welcome, TW campers or not. Just remember THE RULES. (if you don't know the rules, they're there on that link I just gave you. Please read them!)
So, without further ado, since I'm in the muddy middle, here's a bit from the middle of THE MEMORY OF THINGS. The MC is a 16-yr old boy named Kyle. It takes place in New York City (well, Brooklyn), shortly after 9/11.
Have at it. Have fun! And feel free to post your BRIEF excerpt for feedback.
xox gae
FRIDAY – 9/14
Uncle
Paul calls early
I
wake to the phone ringing.
It’s bright out. Morning.
I sit up and wait, but no one is answering.
I run to the extension in the kitchen and pick it up, looking
for signs of Dad. The coffee pot is cold and empty. Did he leave for work
without coffee? Did I miss some new emergency?
“Hello?”I glance at the
clock. It’s freaking eight-thirty. Dad must be long gone by now.
“Kyle?”
“Yeah?” I rub my eyes.
It’s Uncle Paul, which should make me worried, but just makes me sorry I
answered. I know that’s wrong, but I never felt about Uncle Paul the
way I do about Uncle Matty. He’s strict and humorless, and besides, he’s barely
come to see Uncle Matty since he’s been here.
“Hey, kid, how you
doing? Everything okay there?” He sounds concerned. I wonder why he’s calling
so early, why he isn’t calling Dad at the precinct.
“Yeah, fine. Why?” My
mind tries to sort out about Dad, about no signs of coffee or his breakfast, or
the New York Post retrieved from outside the front door. Uncle Paul laughs,
sort of. Snorts maybe. Or huffs. Maybe because I’m half asleep and not doing a
good job of talking.
“You sure?”
“Yeah?”
“Is everything okay
across the river?”
“Yeah, why? Did you
want to call Dad at the precinct?”
He hesitates. “I did,
Kyle. He’s not in yet.”
My stomach drops. I
turn and glance at where the monitor is usually re-situated from Dad’s room to
the kitchen counter in the mornings, but it’s not there.
“Hang on a sec.”
I walk down the hall,
past Kerri’s room and the angel girl. Does Uncle Paul know that she’s still
here? At Dad's bedroom, I stop. The door is shut. Not open, bed-made like it
usually is. I turn the knob and push. Dad’s
face-down, under blankets.
For a second, I panic.
What if he’s had a heart attack? What if he’s dead in there? But after a
second, the sound of his snoring drifts loud and clear.
I’ve never seen Dad sleep past seven. Ever, in my sixteen
years. He must be exhausted. He must have finally caved to it all.
I back out quietly,
shut the door, and head back down the hall.
“Uh, Uncle Paul?”
“Yeah?”
I pause, wondering if
I’ll get Dad in trouble. If I need to cover for him. I mean, the city is a mess
out there. But fuck it. It’s Uncle Paul. It’s his brother. “He’s still
sleeping,” I say. “I’ll wake him up. Have him call you back in five minutes.”
Uncle Paul laughs, but this
time it’s not a funny laugh or a mad one. It’s a laugh of relief. He’s
relieved. He was worried that something happened to Dad. I can hear it. The
relief in the sound.
“Kyle – ”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t wake him.
Really. Let him sleep. We’re all exhausted. I’m sure he’ll be up soon. Have him
call me then.”
“Oh-kay,” I say, because
this is Uncle Paul. No nonsense, no horseplay Uncle Paul.
And then I know. I understand.
Tuesday? Those planes?
They’ve changed
everything.
And everyone.
p.s. I don't know why the cut and paste is doing that weird white highlighting thing... hope it's not too distracting because I'm not fixing it. Too much to do with getting ready for NCTE, Second Pass pages and the dog. . . always the damned dog. ;)
ReplyDeleteHi Gae. So excited you are 37,000 into your new new WIP. Celebrate every word :) I am a newbie Nano'er and it's friggin' tough! But it gets me typing and thin everyday.
DeleteI like the way this scene unfolds. You carefully take us through the mind of Kyle as he tries to process the new morning scene he is encountering. It was such a time of uncertainty for us all in those days and weeks that followed. I can feel that in Kyle. The only thing that didn't jive with me was the chapter title - if Dad is usually up by 7, 8:30 wouldn't be early for him - but it would be early for Kyle. Keep going. Wouldn't it be nice if the dog cold type??!!
* cold should be could
DeleteOooh, thanks, Jessica! You're right about the chapter title. LOL. Preserved from a prior revision. Doesn't make sense. Thanks! :D And thanks for the other generous feedback. Off to read yours now. Yay!
DeleteGae,
ReplyDeleteNow I'm excited for your next next book.Thank you so much for sharing. I really like it, and it makes me want to read more.
Two small things that tripped me up as I read: is the "monitor" a TV, a computer, or something else; and I stumbled on the newspaper the first time and went back to see if I'd missed him opening the door. It may be just me, but maybe something like "or the New York Post he always left for me when he'd finished reading it."
Great job building the tension that something is very wrong. Everyone was so fragile and eveything so upside down those days and weeks and months after--I think you do a fantastic job of showing that without overplaying it (which is hard) and previewing how the tragedy changed people's relationships and focus.
I want to see this MC and watch this unfold. Even in this snapshot, I have a sense of many of the characters and the tension between normality and the utter lack of anything normal.
One last thing, and you may already be doing this--since you're writing about the time after 9/11, I hope you are including the smell. It is a very vivid part of my memories of that time.
Thanks again for posting and hosting FF. Now to polish a piece until it's good enough to share (hopefully).
Jane
Here is my excerpt. I'm being extra brave today by posting an action scene instead of a more thinky piece. I'm curious to see whether you all think it works. Thanks in advance for your comments. --Jane
ReplyDelete“No, thank you, Jamison. That’s all.” The Prince reached a hand toward the teacup and absently brought it to his mouth.
The world seemed to tip as Miranda jumped up and knocked the cup from his lips. It shattered as it hit the table, the still steaming tea drowning the papers. Ink pooled and bled.
Jamison started forward, but she was in motion, too. The lights were too bright and her feet were too heavy, but she pushed herself between Prince Aren and Jamison. Aren stumbled back, reaching wildly behind himself for a sword. With surprising strength, Jamison threw her to the ground. Her shoulder struck the table and knocked it over, spilling the rest of the smoking tea and scattering the bread. On her knees, she grabbed at Jamison, and for the thinnest moment had his arm in her hands. She clutched at his sleeve, but with a burst of effort, he shook her free as he leapt away. Her shoulder burned as she pulled herself up, and pebbles dug into her knees as she crawled forward.
Music was still playing outside, and someone was clapping along with the rhythm. Inside, the tangy smell of tea mixed with the smells of canvas and sweat. Only a few feet away from Aren, Jamison paced as he brandished a dagger, his scrawny chest heaving. Miranda watched as his sallow face curled into a sneer. Quietly, she reached in her boot. She judged the distance between the three of them, a narrow triangle of space separating their points. Jamison laughed a sort of high-pitched squeal, Aren still was reaching behind himself, his fingers grasping and missing, so close to the sword. Miranda knew that Jamison would lunge before Aren got there, a snake striking at a mouse. She would have one chance. Just one.
I am really interested to know more about the dynamics of these three characters. You have some great descriptive lines "the ink pooled and bled" and " a snake striking like a mouse." Since I don't have the backstory here's a few things I'm wondering... Why would Miranda not want the Prince to drink the tea? Where is this set? If it's inside, why are pebbles digging into her knees? I also have a MC bu the name of Miranda :) Happy writing!
DeleteI loved that pooled and bled line too, Jessica!
DeleteHi, Jane, thanks for the awesome feedback. First my responses, and then my feedback. As for the monitor (a baby monitor) and the paper, they are mentioned quite a bit before this scene, and the monitor is important, so I think the reader knows what they are -- not that you can know that out of context. As for the smell comment, what a GREAT piece of information/reminder. Where were you on 9/11? Here on the North Shore (Suffolk County end) of Long Island, we were close enough to feel the fear and worry, but not close enough to smell anything. Are there particular words you would use to describe it?
ReplyDeleteAs for your excerpt, as always with the pieces of this manuscript I've had the pleasure to read here, your writing is colorful, pitch perfect and adept! So happy to see Miranda again, and kicking butt no less. . . Although, not sure what will happen since you left me hanging here. :\ :)
The only issue I am having at all is with a few of the pronouns, telling who the action is done by (even though Miranda is the only she, I still have to calculate as I'm reading, so maybe you could toss names in once or twice more. See flash edit below. And while I'm there, if you pulled out one or two of the "as he"'s and just used and instead, I think it would go the rest of the way in giving this already awesome and punchy scene even more punch. If I'm right, you'll have a hard time finding the spots I even flash edited. ;)
“No, thank you, Jamison. That’s all.” The Prince reached a hand toward the teacup and absently brought it to his mouth.
The world seemed to tip as Miranda jumped up and knocked the cup from his lips. It shattered as it hit the table, the still steaming tea drowning the papers. Ink pooled and bled.
Jamison started forward, but Miranda was in motion, too. The lights were too bright and her feet were too heavy, but she pushed herself between Prince Aren and Jamison. Aren stumbled back, reaching wildly behind himself for a sword. With surprising strength, Jamison threw Miranda to the ground. Her shoulder struck the table and knocked it over, spilling the rest of the smoking tea and scattering the bread. On her knees, she grabbed at Jamison, and for the thinnest moment had his arm in her hands. She clutched at his sleeve, but with a burst of effort, he shook her free and leapt away. Her shoulder burned as she pulled herself up, and pebbles dug into her knees as she crawled forward.
Music was still playing outside, and someone clapped along with the rhythm. Inside, the tangy smell of tea mixed with the smells of canvas and sweat. Only a few feet away from Aren, Jamison paced as he brandished a dagger, his scrawny chest heaving. Miranda watched his sallow face curl into a sneer. Quietly, she reached in her boot. She judged the distance between the three of them, a narrow triangle of space separating their points. Jamison laughed a sort of high-pitched squeal, Aren still was reaching behind himself, his fingers grasping and missing, so close to the sword. Miranda knew that Jamison would lunge before Aren got there, a snake striking at a mouse. She would have one chance. Just one.
Great stuff! Love it! Keep going!
Thanks very much. This is tremendously helpful, and you're helping me to motivate to get through my own mushy middle.
ReplyDeleteOn 9/11, I was at work in midtown. We lived in Queens and smelled it every time we went outside. It lasted for more than a month afterwards. To me, it smelled like burning rubber tires plus burning hair plus burning plastic plus a dash of burning electrical wire. It was inescapable and heavy and horrible. I don't have a great word for it--acrid, yes, but that doesn't do it justice--it wasn't exactly like anything, more a combination of things burned. The other pieces you may or may not already be including are the missing posters everywhere and the fact that ash rained at the site for over a month. We were there in October, and it was coming down like a gentle snow.
wow. the thought of it all still leaves me speechless. I didn't go into the city for a long time after. Months. I remember feeling so fearful all the time. I think it made it worse that my kids were young. I kept thinking, how did I bring them into this? I'm grateful we've made it through... but it seems doomed to repeat itself at some point. . . HUGS. gae
DeleteHere's an excerpt from my current MG WIP. The first day of 5th grade creates a dilemma for Nick. Does he continue his reputation as a first day prankster or heed his mother's warning that pranks and poor grades will mean no wrestling? I'm looking for feedback on the age-appropriateness of characters' dialogue. Thanks :) Katz is the new teacher. He brought a box of ants to school planning to carry through a prank.
ReplyDelete“So you won the school lunch battle I see,” Matt said.
“It wasn’t easy,” I said. My Mom had started this new diet over the summer. It’s supposed to mimic eating like a caveman, which mean lots of meat, which was OK, but no bread or dairy, which wasn’t. Can you imagine a 10 year-old boy not eating ice cream?
“I did a little research on the nutritional value of school lunches and Coach Greene told her how important pasta and rice were for me to keep up my energy level for matches. That, and I told her I’d be a cafeteria outcast if I brought a lunch. I’d have to sit at the “home-lunch” table, with none of my friends, and that would surely scar me for life.”
“You tricked her! There’s no such thing!”
“Call it what you will my friend, but we made a deal. I know she really likes to pack my lunch so on odd days she does. Even days I get school lunch, unless it’s cheeseburgers or pizza. I automatically get those.
“Wow, I am impressed. My mom says it’s easier to put money into three kids’ accounts rather than pack three lunches,” Matt said.
“Yet another advantage of being an only child,” I said.
I was just about to bite into my cheeseburger when someone slid into my left side. Ian Corman’s tray hit the table with a loud thud.
“So I got the news about Katz,” he said.
“Oh yeah, from who?” Miranda asked.
“Brittany Cooper’s aunt works with Katz’s sister,” Ian said.
“How’s that again?” Matt asked.
“She told Brittany that he went to some holy schmoly yoga retreat this summer. Changed his life. He found his inner peach or something like that.”
“You mean inner peace,” Phoebe said.
We all turned to Phoebe. The girl was scary smart.
I could feel the corner of the small box that was digging into my thigh. “So where did he lose his inner peace? What did he do, go to the inner piece store and pick out a new one?”
Matt let out a laugh that sent a hunk of sweet potato onto the middle of the table.
“Gross!” yelled Miranda.
“No, featherhead,” said Phoebe. "Inner peace is a sense of happiness one has within them. Some people who practice yoga also meditate. Sitting quietly allows you to think about what truly makes you happy and focus on that.”
The table was silent. You would have thought a 30 year-old lady was sitting there.
Miranda put her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. “See, what a smart best friend I have!”
What a fun little scene, Jessica! Lots of sparkly fun stuff that, yes, I think will pop even more if you make your boys sound a little younger, which allows Phoebe sound more advanced. I'm going to take the liberty to superspeed flash edit it, because it's easier to show places you MIGHT edit back... they're merely suggestions and ideas as always with a flash edit, so take it all with a grain of salt. xox
ReplyDelete“So you won the school lunch battle, huh?” Matt said.
“It wasn’t easy,” I said. My Mom had started this new diet over the summer. It’s supposed to mimic eating like a caveman, which mean lots of meat, which was OK, but no bread or dairy, which wasn’t. What 10 year-old kid can survive without ice cream?
“I did a little research on the nutritional value of school lunches and Coach Greene told her pasta and rice were important for me to keep up my energy level for matches. And, I told her I’d be a cafeteria loser if I brought lunch from home. I’d have to sit at the “home-lunch” table, with none of my friends, and that would scar me for life.”
“You tricked her! There’s no such thing!”
“Maybe, but we made a deal. I know she really likes to pack my lunch so on odd days she does. Even days I get school lunch, unless it’s cheeseburgers or pizza. I automatically get those.
“Wow. My mom says it’s easier to put money into three kids’ accounts rather than pack three lunches,” Matt said.
“Yet another advantage of being an only child,” I said, (sarcastically??).
I was just about to bite into my cheeseburger when someone slid into my left side. Ian Corman’s tray hit the table with a loud thud.
“So I got the news about Katz,” he said.
“Oh yeah, from who?” Miranda asked.
“Brittany Cooper’s aunt works with Katz’s sister,” Ian said.
“How’s that again?” Matt asked.
“She told Brittany that he went to some holy schmoly yoga retreat this summer. Changed his life. He found his inner peach or something like that.”
“You mean inner peace,” Phoebe said.
We all turned to Phoebe. The girl was scary smart.
I could feel the corner of the small box that was digging into my thigh. “So where did he lose his inner piece? What did he do, go to the inner piece store and pick out a new one?”
Matt let out a laugh that sent a hunk of sweet potato onto the middle of the table.
“Gross!” yelled Miranda.
“No, featherhead,” said Phoebe. "Inner peace is a sense of happiness one has within them. Some people who practice yoga also meditate. Sitting quietly allows you to think about what truly makes you happy and focus on that.”
The table was silent. When Phoebe was around it was like a 30 year-old lady was sitting there.
Miranda put her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. “See, what a smart best friend I have!”
Thank you so much for your feedback! Love the subtle changes. You get the same idea without the formality. Happy NaNo!
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