Mystery box
A strange orange plywood box has appeared on the corner. I like to think of it as a tiny orange TADRIS. Someone scrawled MYSTERY BOX on one side a week ago. And today someone wrote "not a secret box" on the other side. I really want to go write "BAD WOLF" on the other side.
I went to the coffee shop and read the first 50 pages of Prose's "Reading Like a Writer." Four people stopped and asked me where my laptop was. I hadn't realized I was so visible in such a particular way.
I'm trying not to fret about the draft. I know it is so very far from perfect or even good at this stage. I've been reading it aloud to David and cringing. I'm a wretched proofreader of my own work. But I believe in this story and these characters.
Prose has got me thinking about economy of language and of story. While it is true that one can tell a story in a single sentence, is that satisfying? The classics:
"For sale: baby shoes, never worn"
"When I woke up the dinosaur was still there."
are interesting. They seem like a kind of sleight of hand magic to me. But I don't find them satisfying as stories.
Which brings me to something I'm struggling with at this moment. Compression. When do you show and when do you tell? You can't write all unfolding scenes with no narrative ligaments. I guess you could try but it would be odd. You also can't just tell everything without showing. I'm talking about the very simple difference.
telling:
She was smitten.
and showing:
She set her alarm ten minutes earlier than usual so she'd have that time to lie awake and think of him in peace and quiet.
Though this gets more complicated when you attempt to find a middle ground and tell, using language that also shows in a compressed way. I think that is more crucial for short fiction, because there should be no spare tire, no extras, no appendix that can become infected. It is still important in novels. There is almost always a way to get across back story or information that a reader needs, but doesn't need to see in scene because it is not the focus of the story. Trying to zero in on the shortest and most interesting way to get those bits across takes work. Its a fiddly process. One I still have so much to learn about.
I went to the coffee shop and read the first 50 pages of Prose's "Reading Like a Writer." Four people stopped and asked me where my laptop was. I hadn't realized I was so visible in such a particular way.
I'm trying not to fret about the draft. I know it is so very far from perfect or even good at this stage. I've been reading it aloud to David and cringing. I'm a wretched proofreader of my own work. But I believe in this story and these characters.
Prose has got me thinking about economy of language and of story. While it is true that one can tell a story in a single sentence, is that satisfying? The classics:
"For sale: baby shoes, never worn"
"When I woke up the dinosaur was still there."
are interesting. They seem like a kind of sleight of hand magic to me. But I don't find them satisfying as stories.
Which brings me to something I'm struggling with at this moment. Compression. When do you show and when do you tell? You can't write all unfolding scenes with no narrative ligaments. I guess you could try but it would be odd. You also can't just tell everything without showing. I'm talking about the very simple difference.
telling:
She was smitten.
and showing:
She set her alarm ten minutes earlier than usual so she'd have that time to lie awake and think of him in peace and quiet.
Though this gets more complicated when you attempt to find a middle ground and tell, using language that also shows in a compressed way. I think that is more crucial for short fiction, because there should be no spare tire, no extras, no appendix that can become infected. It is still important in novels. There is almost always a way to get across back story or information that a reader needs, but doesn't need to see in scene because it is not the focus of the story. Trying to zero in on the shortest and most interesting way to get those bits across takes work. Its a fiddly process. One I still have so much to learn about.