Wordcraft blog by Avi

Novellas

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The Old Man and the Sea, The Red Badge of Courage, The Turn of the Screw, The Red Pony—and many a modern novel for young people—share the same thing: they are all novellas. The Oxford English Dictionary provides a reasonable (if perplexing) definition of a novella as “a short novel, a long short story.”

The Old Man and the Sea, The Red Badge of Courage, The Turn of the Screw, The Red Pony

From an adult prospective, they can usually be read in one sitting. Young readers can, and do read them that way too. When read is this fashion they can, and are meant to, provide a singularly strong reading experience. The merging of a few hours read with completeness is, I think, unique.

But it’s not generally recognized for the special form it is.

Speaking for myself, nothing gives me more pleasure than settling into my reading chair and emerging a few hours later with a total tale that has held my reading attention throughout—while bringing me to a strong, emotional conclusion. When effective, a good novella will have you thinking about it for a longer time than it took you to read the book.

For young readers—though not necessarily a quick read—novellas are such that they do not go on (from a youthful prospective) forever. Of course, long books—Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings—provide their own kind of pleasures.

When browsing a library or book store, I actually look for a slim volume that tells me I’ve come across a novella. I like to have them a ready reading supply.

In fact, the novella is a favorite literary form for me, both as a reader and as a writer. Books of mine, The Fighting Ground, The Christmas Rat, The Barn, and the forthcoming The Button War fit this kind of writing.

The Fighting Ground, The Christmas Rat, The Barn, The Button War

From the writing point of view, the novella offers specific challenges. They need to be powerful, emotionally charged, even as the characters emerge as fully developed, with only just enough detail of time and space to give a distinct reality. They can fit in the mind of writer and reader-as a whole, and thus need to be carefully crafted and then carefully read.

One of the highest compliments I, as a writer, can receive is when a reader tells me: “I had to read your book in one sitting.”

Novellas can do that.

The Editorial Letter

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You send your manuscript to your editor. You may get a rejection letter—I’ve had my share over the years—but, even when your work is accepted, you will get “an editorial letter.” These editorial letters lay out the things the writer needs to do to move forward. I have even had such letters explicitly say “If you agree with this, we can go forward and publish this book. If not …..”

Editorial letter

Over the years I have worked with many editors, so (no choice) I might even be called an expert on editorial letters. That said, in all my years of publishing—and many books—only once did the accepting editor tell me he was sending my book (S.O.R. Losers) right to copy-editing. I objected, feeling there was work to do.

An editorial letter will lay out the editor’s views as to what needs to be done to the book to make it publishable. I know of one editor (a very successful one) who, none the less, elicits from one of that editor’s writer’s “The scream.” See adjacent image. (Edvard Munch scream)

On the other hand I have in hand an editorial letter sent to me (some time ago) which is four pages (single spaced) of commentary, which was insightful, clear, useful, and put to valuable use. It made me want to go back to the book and revise, and I did so, successfully.

Let it be quickly said, one writer’s editor’s painful editorial style is another writer’s lucid critique. Unless you are writing the same kind of book over and over again, a given editor may not even be the right match for every book you write.

People and editors may differ about this, but I think the role of the editor is to help the writer create the kind of book the writer is trying to write. Problems occur-I think–when the editor tries to bend the writer to the book the editor wants written. Indeed, the editor needs to be clear. The writer needs to be responsive.

Still, as it not often acknowledged enough, the writer-editorial connection is a deeply collaborative process. One of my favorite (and productive) parts of the publishing process are the discussions I have with a smart editor. It almost inevitably leads to a better, richer book.

Sometimes, it’s not necessary to do everything the editorial letter suggests. By working on section A, it just might make section B better, more logical, etc. On the other hand, when working on section C, it can shift things so, you wish to, need to, change sections, D, E and F, going far beyond what that editorial letter suggested.

If all of this advocates that the submission and acceptance of a book, is only part of the process, I have made my point. That editorial letter can be a road map to a good book. Think of it as a buddy movie. Travel well.

Tips for Reading Aloud

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A Christmas CarolOne might think that reading your own writing aloud—to an audience—is a straightforward, even simple thing. In fact, it is not. The writer who taught me that was Charles Dickens.

I had known about Dickens’ public readings. They were, apparently, famously superb, and attracted huge audiences. But it was a chance visit to New York City’s famed Morgan Library which taught me how he prepared for such performances.

On display was his reading script of A Christmas Carol, a work he often performed. It consisted of a published edition of his book. But here was the revelation: he had altered the written text into a performing text.

He took out the “he saids” and “she saids”—because he could differentiate character voices sufficiently with his voice. He cut parts of the expository text where it went on too long. He cut text so as to intensify the action. He added text to help his audience understand what was happening.

The key message was this: an audience that LISTENS to text responds differently than an individual READING text.

I suspect that most librarians and teachers—and even authors—who read text, even of their own composition, feel duty–bound to respect the text to the ultimate degree, sharing each and every word. Take it from Dickens: that’s not so.

Avi reading at book festival

Also, before I began to do readings—either solo performances, or with a group such as Authors Readers Theatre—I took voice lessons. I found a class called “Voice for Actors.” Wonderfully helpful. Among other things I learned:

How to stand.

How to pitch your voice so as to maximize emotional value.

How to pace oneself, not just as a performer, but so an audience can absorb what you are saying.

How to alter the voice for different characters.

The Read-Aloud HandbookI hasten to say this is all about methodology, not any particular skill.

Finally, consult a good reference such as The Read Aloud Handbook by Jim Trelease. Such a guide understands that some books read aloud better than others.

I promise that if you consider all of this, and do it, you can fully engage your audience with reading.

Keeping a Clear Head

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Samuel Johnson quote

Familiarity breeds contempt appears to be an old concept. The notion apparently makes its way into print via Geoffrey Chaucer‘s Canterbury Tales (1390 or thereabout).

Indeed, I think it’s a particular problem for writers: How does one keep going over one’s work—day after day, perhaps year after year—yet look at your work objectively, with a clear head (and eyes), and keep a critical perspective? At the same time, you do want subjective (emotional) engagement. For a writer like me, who writes almost every day, this is a problem.

In last week’s essay, I’ve suggested that doing nothing—that is walking away from that particular work—helps. Returning after an interval of time can bring some objectivity. I achieve some of this by alternating between projects.

Another major help is reading you work aloud—pen in hand. Amazing how reading aloud alters one’s sense of work. (Robert Frost: “The ear is the best reader.”) I recall learning that Madeleine L’Engle (A Wrinkle in Time) had her husband (an accomplished actor) read her new work aloud to her. I confess, I find it hard to listen to other people reading my writing.

The first person I read my books to is usually my wife, a good listener with articulate critical skills. Getting someone else to read your work, and talk about it, gives you a different perspective.

I also go into favorite schools—with whom I’ve established a relationship—and read a new book (going in, say, once a week) pencil in hand.

Find a school which focuses on kids who have problems reading. Used to being read to, these young people are wonderful listeners, are really smart, and give great feedback. I’ve done so for years,

There some other tricks.

When working on a computer you can:

  1. Change the font.
  2. Change the size of the font.
  3. Change the layout.
  4. Change the screen color.

These changes will alter the way the manuscript looks, and force you to see the text in new ways.

Finally: Submit your work to a publisher. As Samuel Johnson wrote: “When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.”

It’s time to watch baseball.

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play baeball

I had submitted a revised draft of a novel to my editor, with the understanding that it would be a few weeks—at the earliest—when I received a response, and critique. That said, I was fairly sure the major work had been done and, other than minor revisions, the work was good. Most important of all, I was satisfied with my work.

As I happened, for a variety of reasons, the editor’s response took longer than anticipated. Thus, after perhaps a month of disengagement, I picked up the manuscript and read it.

I was horrified.

So many weak sentences. Word repetitions. Even some plot potholes and contradictions. Weak character motivations.

This was bad work.

An emergency email to my editor. “Stop! I need to do some serious revisions.”

“Okay. Sure. But the deadline remains …..”

Back to work.

But—what had happened? Why, at one time was I “satisfied with my work” and a month later “this was bad work”?

What happened was time and distance.

There is a great contradiction in the writing process, at least for me. While writing, I wish to be thoroughly engaged, immersed one hundred percent in my characters, while maintaining the momentum of moving the plot forward. All in all, proceeding as fast as I can. On the other hand, being thoroughly engaged, immersed one hundred percent, maintaining the momentum, and proceeding as fast as I can, is all about subjectivity. But doing nothing—stepping back from my work for a decent period of time, gives me distance, objectivity.

I recall Natalie Babbitt once telling me that there comes a time, when working on a manuscript, that you are only adjusting the commas, changing a word or two. “That,” she said, “is the time to watch baseball.” The truth is, however, it is very hard to do nothing. It is harder when payment for the book (paying the mortgage) is wrapped up in the true completion of a book. But doing nothing is, I think, a key part of the process.

I like to cook, which in my case is not being inventive, but following a good recipe. And when I make a good stew—perfect for Colorado’s mountain winters—quite often the recipe suggests, “Better the day after you make it.”

That’s true for writing as well. Time can often be the best editor.

Writing Short Chapters

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Elise, from New York City asks, why do so many of your books have short chapters?

The simple, and important, answer is that’s what I like to read. And I’m a great believer in writing what you enjoy reading.

But there may be another part of the answer.

When I began to write seriously (or tried to) I was still in high school and my ambition was to become a playwright, that is, to write for the NYC Broadway theatre.

I read a lot of plays by classical authors like Shakespeare and Moliere. The versions I read replicated their short scenic structure. Brecht, a modern playwright I much admired, wrote his plays with short scenes.

How Not to Write a PlayI also read about playwriting. Walter Kerr, an influential NYC theatre critic, wrote a book called How Not to Write a Play. I read it closely. If I remember correctly, (and I may be wrong here) he broke down the structure of plays into “beats.” These “beats” were brief scenes in which a number of characters interacted and moved the story forward. The plays themselves, were not broken down into such scenes, but Kerr suggested one could understand plots—and how they were written—by looking for them. This was also, in the day, how performance acting was taught.

Another critic’s books I read were those by Eric Bently, who praised the kind of theatre I liked.

When I went off to Antioch College, I took the only writing course I would ever take, playwriting. It was taught by Paul Treichler, a theatrical director who was influential beyond that Ohio college.

In Treichler’s course we were taught—yet again—to break down our plays scene by scene, into “beats.” We were actually given forms to fill out, so that we organized the plays we wrote—or tried to write—scene by scene into, well, beats. Actual forms: “Name of characters. What do they want to do? What happens? How does it move the story forward?”

Something like that. I filled out lots of those forms.

Over time I became accustomed to writing with this structural form in mind. That is, I constructed play plots by paying attention to beats.

At some point, I gave up writing for the theatre, though I came close to my original dream, when someone actually wanted to produce one of my plays on Broadway. (It had many short scenes.) I hasten to say, nothing came of it. At the time, I was only 21 years old. I moved on (“the road not taken”) as only a 21-year-old can do.

Things That Sometimes HappenAt some point—that’s another story—I took to writing for young people. But—my old writing habits did not change. I didn’t write short scenes, or beats, or fill out forms, I wrote short chapters. You can read it for yourself in my earliest published book for kids, Things That Sometimes Happen, first issued in 1970.

One editor of mine told me, “You have never stopped writing plays.”

Elise, as you have noticed, I still write this way.

A Professional Dentist

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A professional dentist?

I was reading Gaudy Night, the 1936 novel by Dorothy Sayers, (a very interesting and good British writer) when I came upon a curious passage, an exchange which takes place between Freddy Arbuthnot, a wealthy man about town, and Harriet Vane, a writer:

“…but [said Mr. Arbuthnot.] mild old gentlemen do sometimes breakout into a spot of tut-tuttery. How about a brandy? Waiter, two liqueur brandies. Are you writing any more books?”

Suppressing the rage that this question always rouses in a professional writer, Harriet admitted that she was.

“It must be splendid to be able to write,” said Mr. Arbuthnot. “I often think I could spin a good yarn myself if…”

I have had this exchange countless time during my long writing career. Indeed, I heard it three nights ago when coming across an acquaintance in a movie lobby. And it is not about my advancing age because I heard it many years ago when very much younger.

That it appears in this book, which was written before I was born, suggests how often the question is asked.

Why?

I suspect it comes about because of the very use of the words “professional writer,” in Sayer’s text. Most people, I believe, find it difficult to understand what being a “professional” writer means. Consider, the term is never affixed to say, a dentist. Would you ever use the term professional dentist? Or Professional priest? As contrasted to amateur dentist. An amateur priest?

True, you can make a distinction between a professional cook and an amateur cook.

Which, coming around to the original question, suggests people have a hard time thinking about what a professional writer does; that is to say, makes a living by writing. Surely, writing must be a hobby, a pastime, a diversion, perhaps even a distraction. Because, if you’ve been to school, you can write.

Everybody writes (not really) but few write books. Therefore, the profession of writing, by which, among other things, you pay one’s bills, doesn’t seem quite plausible.

And indeed, the question, “Are you still writing?” is often followed, as above, by the statement, “I have often thought of writing….” whatever.

No doubt people come across more professional dentists than they do professional writers.

Therefore, perhaps the solution—and the answer to that question— “are you still writing?”—is for writers to open offices, so that readers can make an appointment, and listen when an author reads from his or her work.

I can just hear the professional writer starting the sessions by saying, “Now listen carefully. This won’t be but a moment’s pain.”

Book Stores

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Book presentIf you love bookstores as much as I do, go to this article on LitHub.

I have my own personal connections to some of these book stores, The Strand (in NYC), Powell’s (In Portland, OR), and City Lights (San Francisco, CA).

When growing up in NYC, “Book Store Row,” Fourth Avenue—with its many, many book stores—was a favorite haunt of mine. For my sixteenth birthday, my father took me to The Strand, and said, “Buy anything you want up to twenty-five dollars. And if it’s a little more, don’t worry.”

In 1953, twenty-five bucks was a huge amount of money dedicated to used books. Using an online inflation calculator, I determined that in today’s cash that’s two hundred and fifty dollars. Wow, indeed! Talk about sweet sixteen. Amazingly enough, I still have a few of what was then the big box of books I brought home that long-time-ago birthday. But then I always feel that when I open a book I’m unwrapping a present.

When I travel, one of the places I inevitably find is a book store. Why go to the Eiffel Tower when I can go to Shakespeare and Co?

More than twenty years ago I met my wife in a book store. She was managing it. We still have a lot of books—and our marriage. Horace, the Roman essayist wrote, “A house without books is a body without a soul.”

To tell the truth, I buy books recreationally. So it was when we moved a few years back after selling our Denver home and moving to the mountains, I gave away some three thousand books—to a used book store.  It was a place called—if I remember correctly—Books for a Buck. I gave the books away for nothing, hoping that some sixteen-year-old with twenty five bucks in his/her pocket found something to fill their soul.

Story Behind the Story #67,
The Player King, Part Two

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The Player KingIf you read history—as I do for the stories—it is more often than not populated by big people, kings, queens, generals, senators and presidents. Such people do alter history, sometimes for the better, or worse. But embedded in such tales are countless—if only passing—references to others, small folk.

Such is the story of Lambert Simnel, as told in The Player King, my most recent book.

I am not certain how I became interested in King Richard III, (1452-1485) of England. Shakespeare’s play, perhaps. Maybe Laurence Olivier’s fine film version of the play. Or was it my librarian colleague, who always wore a white boar lapel button, the white boar being King Richard’s insignia? This librarian was a passionate defender of King Richard III, five hundred years after his death. Why?

I went on to read Josephine Tey’s smart detective novel (1951) Daughter of Time, in which a modern detective tries to solve the many mysteries of Richard III’s life and death.

Moving on, I read other books about the time, including some about Richard III’s conqueror, Henry VII, founder of the Tudor dynasty.

Henry VII—known as “The Winter King”—was a usurper, his crown constantly challenged. One of those who challenged him early on was a boy named Lambert Simnel—if that truly was his name.

Read the histories of the time, and he is barely mentioned. Indeed, just last week I saw a documentary about Henry VII and Lambert was not even cited. But Lambert—a boy—was crowned King of England (in Dublin, Ireland) and led a large invasion army into England, only to be defeated at the Battle Of Trent, the last battle of the War of the Roses. I noticed Lambert in a footnote.

Very little is known about Lambert Simnel. Where did he come from? How did he come to be crowned king? What happened to him after the battle? Certain facts are known—he did exist—but the boy…. Just who was he? What did he think of all that happened to him?

That’s what I have tried to write in The Player King. Strictly speaking, the title should have been The Player Kings. There is more than one false king in the book.

The challenge was to write about something which is well known—except the central player, the player king—the boy known as Lambert Simnel.

The truth is, foot notes are the foot soldiers of history.

Story Behind the Story #67:
The Player King, Part One

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The Player KingWhen one reads history, one learns about big events and important people, such as the American Revolution, or, say, Napoleon. But if you read the footnotes in those histories you can learn about the individuals who lived in those historical moments. You learn about British prison ships in New York City, where more people died by maltreatment than on the revolutionary battlefields. (Sophia’s War) Or you learn about a tiny skirmish that changed people’s lives (The Fighting Ground). And you learn about a mystery boy in the 15th century who, briefly, became King of England.

It actually happened.

I’m not sure when I came upon this curious—but true—story. It was any number of years ago, but it stuck in my mind.  From time to time I’d do a little research.  There was not much to learn.

The boy, Lambert Simnel—if that was really his name—came out of nowhere, and was put forward by powerful nobles to claim the throne of England—then in possession of King Henry the 7th. Henry had recently taken power after killing King Richard the 3rd. Henry 7 was father to Henry 8, grandfather of Queen Elizabeth.

There is no doubt Lambert really existed, and was crowned king (in Ireland) and led a large army against Henry 7th. At that battle—the Battle of Trent—his army was defeated and he was taken prisoner.

Just how he came to be chosen in the first place is uncertain. One notion is that he looked like the Earl of Warwick, who had (by the standards of the day) a claim on the crown. But the real Earl of Warwick was a prisoner in the Tower of London. What is known of Lambert was mostly written down by people loyal to Henry 7th, and the Tudor dynasty, which he founded. This means even the “known” facts are to be treated with suspicion. Still, there is no doubt, he was a real boy. It all happened.

It was claimed that Lambert was originally a kitchen boy. When he became Henry’s prisoner, he was put to work in a castle kitchen. Thus, he was a kitchen boy, became a king, and then again, a kitchen boy.

Or so it seems.

Because so little is known about Lambert, it was up to me to invent his thoughts, his words, his feelings, as he was swept along. How would a boy—from nowhere—feel about being chosen to become a king and even crowned? Did he want to go along with this plot?  Was he forced to do it?  What was it like for a boy of ten (or twelve) to lead an invasion army into England? As he was taught to be king-like, did he begin to believe he truly was a king? Did he know that his “friends” were really his enemies?  No one knows. I had to invent him. All of him. That said, virtually every character in the book is based on people who really existed.

My writing challenge was to make this story come to life in the person of Lambert, to make a true, but unbelievable story, seem true—if that makes any sense.

There are no footnotes in my novel. I just turned someone else’s footnote into a novel.

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