From the Compost

May

Compost: Writing Takes Guts

By Kim · Comments (0)

It’s my birthday (actually yesterday was my birthday, but I’m taking a long weekend in celebration). Anyway, I am taking a day off so I’m presenting an article I wrote some years ago. It is still true and it bears repeating. Maybe you missed it the first time.

My ghostwriting clients are not writers. If they were, they wouldn’t need a ghostwriter, and they wouldn’t be my clients. So I am glad to work with non-writers – just because they can’t or won’t write, doesn’t mean they don’t have great stories. They do, and those stories deserve to be told.

But here’s a frustration with working with non-writers. Writers know that writing exposes you and makes you vulnerable. The more real and truthful you are, the more vulnerable and exposed. But non-writers don’t know that – until they get their manuscript back from the ghostwriter they hired to write their story, and they read their words and thoughts and feelings on paper. And then they get scared. They want to hedge and soften, and turn specifics into safe generalities, so they will feel safer.

Of course, this will kill their writing. Readers respond to gut-level stuff; that is what makes stories compelling and readable. But it’s not just the readers who get shortchanged when the story is “softened.” So does the author. By softening those rough patches, by hedging their truths and telling instead of showing their pains and joys, they have dramatically reduced the biggest benefit of writing – healing their wounds.

It is the role of the ghostwriter to guide non-writers through this scary jungle. Ghosts don’t mess around; they go right to the heart of the matter, cutting through all the prettifications, evasions, rationalizations, and sometimes even lies that the authors tell themselves in order to avoid what scares them.

Writing something down makes it real, and much harder to ignore. That’s what a ghostwriter is after – the real truth about what happened and why and how the author feels about it. A ghost claims a space inside the author’s head and does not waste their time with anything but the unvarnished truth.

And that’s where the frustration comes in. It’s not my story; it’s theirs. If they don’t want to tell the truth, I can’t make them. All I can do is offer my tools, and hope they use them.

Categories : Compost

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May

Haiku Friday: Withdrawal

By Kim · Comments (2)

Here’s my haiku for today, on the topic of Withdrawal:

haiku withdrawal

two days without means the shakes

three days – delusions

It’s Haiku Friday again. For the past twenty years or so, it has been my practice to write one haiku every day. Every Friday I share a haiku here, about whatever topic I happen to choose. I invite you to write a haiku on this topic too, and share it with me and the readers of this blog. Just write it in the Comments below. The only rules are: 1) your haiku must be about the named topic; 2) you must follow the 5-7-5 syllable format; 3) no obscenities or hate (I will delete those). That’s it.

Categories : Haiku Friday

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May

Serial Fiction: Grandma’s Masks, Installment #15

By Kim · Comments (0)

Here’s another installment of my book-in-progress, Grandma’s Masks. If you missed the previous installment on May 8^th, click here to read it. Or click the Serial Fiction tab to read all the previous posts of Grandma’s Masks.

Trout:

How to Know It All

Long ago, or maybe only yesterday, there was a young woman who wanted to know everything. She read thousands of books. She took thousands of classes. She listened to thousands of wise men and women, and asked thousands of questions. Still, no matter how much she knew, there was always more to know.

One day after she had been studying for a long time, she went for a walk to freshen her head. Her walk took her along the banks of a wild and twisty river. The river pushed and shoved and whirled and churned, making its way over rocks and fallen logs. It sang and whispered and whistled and slurped. It threw up cold spray that dampened her legs and splattered on her face. Soon her head was very fresh indeed, eager to know more new things.

She turned to go back to her studies, and just then an enormous Rainbow Trout jumped out of the river in a flashing, graceful arc. He was as long as a dolphin, plump and juicy, and his sides glistened with a rainbow glaze, pink and green and silver. He smoothly entered the river again and swam to where the young woman stood watching, her attention caught by his size and beauty. He shimmered in the shallows near the bank, his fin making giant ripples on the surface of the river. She could see his face through the clear water. His unblinking eyes were fixed upon hers.

When Trout was sure he had her attention, he gestured with his tail toward a deep green patch of smooth water in back of him, near the opposite bank of the river. It was a calm quiet circle in the midst of the rushing turmoil of the river, a place where the current did not go.

“That is my Home,” said Trout in a watery voice. “The deep bottom of the river, where all is known.” He gave the young woman a keen look, expectation plainly written on his rainbow scales. Evidently he wanted her to understand something.

She certainly liked the sound of a place where all is known, but she didn’t know what Trout wanted her to understand, or to do. She stared at him, watching Trout watch her. They watched each other.

Finally, she spoke. “Is there something I should know about the dark quiet water, your Home?” she asked.

“You may find an answer there,” said Trout, through the bubbles and swirl of the river. Plainly he did not use people-speak very often, for his voice was heavily accented with the rhythm of the river.

“Oh? An answer to what?” she asked.

What do you think? Should she trust the Trout? What answer will she find there if she chooses to seek?

Categories : Serial Fiction

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May

Ghostwriting for a Dog: Moving On Up

By Kim · Comments (2)

Alex Terrgi here. My sister Goody Beagle doesn’t feel like writing today, so I’m stepping in for her. This makes me feel like I might be moving up in the world.

When I came to live with my human, Goody Beagle was already here. So even though I am the boy dog, I did not come first. Before I came to live here, I thought boys always came first, but now I live with a she-dog, a she-cat, and a she-human, and I’m here to tell you that boys do not automatically come first in this house.

But since I get to blog today, I might have a chance to come first – at least on blogging day. So here’s to lifting our legs, guys!

Categories : Ghostwriting for a Dog

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May

Haiku Friday: Mosquitoes

By Kim · Comments (1)

Here’s my haiku for today, on the topic of Mosquitoes:

good we don’t eat bugs

can’t find a recipe for

mosquito puree

Categories : Haiku Friday

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May

Serial Fiction: Grandma’s Masks, Installment #14

By Kim · Comments (1)

Here’s another installment of my book-in-progress, Grandma’s Masks. If you missed the previous installment on May 1st, click here to read it. Or click the Serial Fiction tab to read all the previous posts of Grandma’s Masks.

Emma, continued

To tell the truth, I don’t think Lucy gets the point of the Trout story. In my opinion she misses the point of lots of stories, but arguing with Lucy about philosophy or anything that can be considered “deep” is a waste of time. Her scientific bent is deeply ingrained; not only by her rigorous academic training, but by both her parents, scientists who brought her up to be a rationalist. The result is that her mind is closed so tight she doesn’t even know it’s closed. She thinks my artistic flair is flaky and my love of philosophical discussions is pointless. She likes to know how things work, but why they work the way they do doesn’t matter to her. That’s too deep, and to Lucy, deep does not exist.

But I envy Lucy her certainty, because I’m not certain about anything. From the time she was a little girl, Lucy loved to dig in the dirt for what she called “treasure;” it makes perfect sense that when Grandma introduced her to archaeology she fell in love. She’s been dedicated to it ever since, while I flounder and flop from one thing to another. When I was a teenager I thought I might want to be a psychiatrist someday, so I could find out why everyone was so screwed up. Then I went to one, and found out they were just as screwy as the rest of us. For a while I was attracted to the ministry, but finally decided that my inability to believe in a specific, personal god disqualified me. That and I couldn’t decide which religion was the right one. This was a great relief to my family, secular to the core. Lucy tried to talk me into the sciences, but they bored me silly.

Really what I think I am is an artist, just one without talent. Is there such a thing? I play the flute, but not well enough to join a real orchestra. I can write clearly, but lack the imagination to make up my own stories. I draw well enough, and I love color and line and shape and texture, but somehow the spark isn’t there that transforms a painting or a sculpture into art. I am a capable graphics artist and animator, I am a good amateur photographer, the second alto in a women’s choir, I’ve produced short films that earned me Bs and Cs in my college Film classes, and in Theatre Arts my scene staging was satisfactory if not inspirational. I even tried my hand at fashion design, although no one wore my creations. The only thing I was really rotten at was acting, since as soon as I got on stage or in front of a camera I became dead. Dead words fell out of my dead lips and my body parts went robotic.

I finally graduated from college in history, my mother’s profession and one that had always been my fall-back. I liked it, but was it me? I still don’t know, and now I’m back in school getting another degree, this one in linguistics. Maybe I’ll end up as a translator somewhere. Maybe the light will finally come on and I’ll go, “Ah! The path!” And maybe the path will have a trapdoor leading to the answers to all the whys, and maybe the whys will try to kill me. Maybe, maybe.

I can drive people nuts because I love to meander down these strange beckoning paths, but Lucy tolerates my flakiness because she loves me. Lucy knows that love exists; in fact she is a warm and loving person. But don’t ask her to explain what love means. It will only make her mad.

I tell her the Trout story anyway.

Why do Emma and Lucy love each other so much, if they are so different? Will Emma find her calling during this book? What do you think her calling is?

Categories : Serial Fiction

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May

Sharing History: Making History in the 1990s

By Kim

Making History: How to remember, record, interpret and share the events of your life, covers from 1930 through 1989, and shows how one’s own life
intersects with “big history.” I am in the process of gathering stories from the 1990s so I can update the book to include this important decade.

On the first Monday of each month, I share some historical events from the 1990s and ask readers to share their experiences about any or all of these events. These stories will be featured in the next edition of Making History (with your permission and your byline, of course). You can share your story here on the blog, in the Comments, or you can send your thoughts to me in an email, to kim@primary-sources.com.

AND if you share a story, I will reciprocate immediately by sending you a FREE copy of one of my ebooks of your choice. See my website for the ebooks you can choose from, and let me know which you choose in an email to kim@primary-sources.com.

Recently the issue of Gay Rights and Gay Marriage is much in the news. Historically speaking, the “sea change” (to quote Chief Justice Roberts) on this issue has been extremely swift, and the 1990s were a decade with many steps both forward and backward on this social issue. Here are just some of the 90s events that you might remember. What was your emotional response to this event? Did you talk about this event to your family or friends and share your opinions? Did this event motivate you to change your opinion or take action in some way? Did this event affect your lifestyle? If so, write it down. In 100 years, maybe one of your descendants would like to know how you participated or contributed to the events of your time

1990 – an openly gay legislator was elected in NY state – the first in any state
1990 – the US Congress repealed the law prohibiting gays from entering the country
1990 – The US Court of Appeals ruled that the federal government can deny security clearances on the basis of sexual orientation
1990 & 91 – Executive orders in 5 states prohibit sexual orientation discrimination in the public sector
1992 – The World Health organization declassifies homosexuality as a mental illness
1993 – Don’t Ask Don’t Tell becomes the law in the military, meaning gay people could serve in the military as long as they didn’t tell anyone they were gay, or engage in homosexual acts
1993 – The 3^rd Gay Rights March on Washington drew an estimated one million participants
1996 – The Defense of Marriage Act is passed by Congress, stating that gay people in committed relationships are not entitled to federal marriage benefits
1998 – The hate killing of Matthew Shepherd galvanizes many
1999 – Tammy Baldwin becomes the first openly gay member of the US House of Representatives

Thank you for sharing your story. And if you don’t feel like sharing, have fun remembering anyway.

Categories : Sharing History

May

Haiku Friday: Stuck

By Kim

haiku pic 1 Here’s my haiku for today, on the topic of “Stuck”:

the sky is falling

the sea is rising, and you

are stuck in the mud

Categories : Haiku Friday

May

Serial Fiction: Grandma’s Masks, Installment #13

By Kim

Here’s another installment of my book-in-progress, Grandmas Masks. If you missed the previous installment on April 24th, click here to read it. Or click the Serial Fiction tab to read all the previous posts of Grandma’s Masks. We’re starting this month with Chapter 3.

Emma

Lucy has a deep voice for a woman. It’s her only physical resemblance to Grandma. Listening to her tell Grandma’s weird Orangutan story, if I closed my eyes it seemed like Grandma was here again. If I cry, I thought, we’ll both start. And it would be hard to stop.

I reached out and took a mask down, letting my hand choose whichever one was best. I laughed when I saw what I’d picked.

“I know you remember this one,” I said, holding the mask up to my face. It was a Rainbow Trout, with wavy rainbows of pink and green painted on his silvery scales.

“Oh, I love the Trout,” said Lucy, smiling. “Remember how Grandma used to tell it? When Trout waved his tail, Grandma would move her whole butt back and forth, brushing it against the wall. It made this swish-swish sound.”

“Yeah, and when she held Trout up to her face you could see her eyebrows go up and down through his eyeholes,” I added.

“And you could see her mouth through his mouth, opening and closing, sucky-suck like a fish makes bubbles,” laughed Lucy. “Grandma was the Trout.”

“We need the Beetle mask to tell the Trout story,” I said. “I’ll go find it.” I ran into the studio to look. The Beetle had a hard shiny back painted royal purple, and wings made of lavender feathers. When she told the Trout story, in which Beetle played a part, Grandma wore the Beetle mask on her arm, so it could swoop through the air. Because it was a flying beetle, you see.

“Here it is,” I called, taking the Beetle off the wall of the studio. Lucy came out of the office, carrying the Trout mask. She held it out to me. “You tell it,” she said. She was laughing in anticipation. I don’t know why Lucy likes this story so much. It doesn’t have a happy ending.

Are you interested to hear the Trout’s story? If so, check back next week for the next installment of Grandma’s Masks.

Categories : Serial Fiction

Apr

Compost: The Map Key

By Kim

Recently I edited a couple of manuscripts that were well-written, contained dynamic stories, and had inspirational and important topics. Yet editing them was an exercise in frustration.

How could this be? Because the authors of these manuscripts were new to the book biz, and their manuscripts contained a mistake common for first-time authors.

They were seduced by the plethora of formatting options offered by their word processing software. Different kinds of cool bullets, numerous fancy fonts and font sizes, ways to indent, easy to bold, italicize or underline, spacing, tab stops and margin options, header and footer options, tables and text boxes, pages of symbols to choose from – I could go on.

And the books I just edited seemed to use them all. Eek!

I’m not against all formatting. I’m against too many of these options used in one manuscript. And I’m especially against inconsistent formatting. If your first three subheads are 14 point bold, don’t make the next one 12 point italic. If you center a quotation in Chapter 4, then don’t simply indent one in Chapter 7. Again, I could go on.

The most important thing about formatting is consistency. A consistent format is like the Key in a road map, allowing your reader to feel comfortable that you are leading him/her in the right direction, and that s/he knows “where they are.” It allows them to feel safe, that the author can be trusted to alert them to landmarks or ditches. Inconsistent and too-busy formatting will confuse them, and can lead to distrust of the author’s message.

Another thing about inconsistent and too many different formats is that your book designer might become a little cranky. They will want everything to be as simple and consistent as possible, because they will design using professional layout software, so all your fancy fonts and different bullet shapes will be discarded anyway, and can make their job harder.

The final thing about too-busy inconsistent formatting is that it, like excessive wordiness, dilutes your message and diminishes the power of your words. If your words are compelling and your sentences sing, you do not need to use tricks to capture your readers.

Categories : Compost

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