The (Vanishing) Art of Conversation

Nothing profound today, just an observation.

Now, I love serendipity.  Right before I headed on my way to the Chippewa Valley Book Festival, I realized that my husband had taken my little iPod pluggie thingie . . . you know, that doohickey that allows you to plug your iPod into your radio?  Now, this had me seriously PO'ed because I was about to take a VERY long drive with a very SHORT turnaround: 5 hours each way in a 36-hour period.  When you factor in things like sleep and all the activities I had planned for the next day (three school visits) before I had to head back and then get into the car again the very next day for yet another appearance (a 3-hour drive one way) . . . that's a heck of a lot of time in the car that I was planning to put to good use listening to an audiobook that I'd downloaded especially for this trip now wasted.

So, instead, I punched in the local NPR affiliate and let public radio keep me company on that very long drive.  Now the lovely thing about Wisconsin is we've got coverage pretty much all over the state, and most of it effortlessly bleeds into the other, so you really don't miss much.  Of course, when you listen to the same news once over (because All Things Considered repeats), that's a drag.

Anyway, I'm driving along; it's a pretty day, nice autumn colors, good weather, that kind of thing.  Spotted a ginormous bald eagle on my way up, too, maybe twenty miles outside of Wausau.  As amazing as the eagle was, that wasn't the interesting part of the trip, though.  Instead, what REALLY held my interest was a fabulous Fresh Air, a program I rarely listen to not only because I'm not all that interested in most of the guests (sorry, but it's true), but it's on at the wrong time of day where I live.  This time, though, because I was trapped in the car, I heard a fabulous interview with Sherry Turkle, a clinical psychologist, who's the founder of MIT's Initiative on Technology and the Self.  Her main focus is studying the ways technology has changed the way we interact with one another.  Her newest book, Alone Together: How We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other, addresses something I've written about before: how ironic it is that, in this age of increased connectivity, our interpersonal connectedness--our ability to meaningfully communicate with one another--has suffered.  What I found especially intriguing were her research findings on the huge impact adults' anxieties over not in being in touch with their kids 24/7 has; how these anxieties are enormously detrimental to emotional development, particularly in the arenas of privacy, the capacity to be alone, and to disengage from one's parents (a pivotal milestone in adolescent development).  I'm not going to recapitulate the entire interview; if you're interested, take a listen. (Well worth it, I promise, and food for thought--really.)

Now, as a shrink, I didn't find any of Turkle's concerns alarmist in the slightest.  But, frankly, one thing I hadn't paid much attention to was kids' preferred modes of engagement.  That is, we kind of all expect adolescents to hesitate to be outwardly engaged, know what I'm saying?  They're the ones who'll slouch in their chairs, kind of dare you to impress or excite them, and heaven forbid, they ask the first question.  (Once a couple kids get the ball rolling, though, then it's like the group has received permission to become involved and excited.  Like Kohler High School where I spoke the week before . . . wow, those kids really got into it and we could've kept going.  But you got to hope for those two or three brave souls to start things off.)  

During the festival--but particularly after--I was reminded of Turkle's work when it came to engaging kids.  I spoke at two middle schools and one high school, and while I enjoyed each venue, the difference between the willingness of the younger kids to allow themselves to be engaged and talkative and excited versus the older kids was obvious.  The last middle school, Northstar, we talked for a good ninety minutes and were still going strong when the asst. principal had to intervene and send the kids off to resource.  This is no surprise, mind you; if you know adolescents, then you can look at the high school kids and shrug and understand this comes with the territory.  

But what did make me think about Turkle's work was when a) the high school librarian emailed to say that the kids were so excited by my presentation that they'd descended in droves to find my books and b) a couple of the high school kids got in touch to ask questions and tell me how much they liked the presentation . . . but through Facebook and Twitter

Which was kind of interesting.  

Now, I get a lot of emails, tweets, and FB messages; most authors do.  The middle grade kids from two of the Dublin schools I toured last year still stay in touch, but they were the most involved at the time, too.  Here, though, clearly those high school students were plenty interested, but expressing that, out loud and at the time, wasn't cool (for whatever reason).  Maybe this is why I always make sure to tell kids they can contact me through the usual social media or my website, and that I will always answer (so long as they're polite).

I think what I've observed is a microcosm of what Turkle's seen.  Since I am a shrink, I have noticed that so many older kids, those raised with cells, have a lot of trouble both making eye contact during and flat-out having a sustained--and uncontrolled--conversation.  Do I wonder what this means for kids' development in particular and notions of privacy more generally?  You bet.   

I waffle about whether it's better to meet with large groups or small; I've had great experiences with each.  Smaller groups imply conversation as a given while large groups foster anonymity.   But, on the other hand, the dynamics of a group are quite powerful, and once you can engage a couple kids, then it's like a row of dominoes: the questions keep coming and the conversation flows.

What I don't doubt is this: it is important for us, as authors, to actively engage kids in the ways our books invite.  That means, I think, that we have to model how to have conversations with kids who may not know how to do this very well.  To that end, the more directly we can connect--eye contact, face to face--the greater our ability to touch kids. Yes, by all means, keep in touch after the fact.  Be available.  But a text is not a person; a Skype visit is not a flesh and blood person; a blog can not engage the way you--your presence--can.  In a way, our books open the door to a conversation.  The least we can do is actually have one.

Join us for FRIGHTFUL Halloween fun!

 

 
 
If you're into free books, Halloween festivities, and hanging out with readers and authors galore, be sure to stop over at WinterHaven Books' *Authors Fright Festival* on October 31st.

There's an awesome line up of over 40 authors (including several of ADR3NALIN3's contributors), a huge giveaway, and creepy fun to be had by all!!!

Hope to see you there, ghouls and guys. ;)

Is Cutting More Important than Adding?

By Jordan Dane
@JordanDane 


Today I have a guest post from Sechin Tower, author of Mad Science Institute (MSI), a highly unusual yet thoroughly entertaining young adult suspense novel. I met Sechin on Twitter. Once I saw that he was a game developer, I asked for his help to develop my next proposal, a near future YA techno thriller that involves gaming and he helped me fine tune my game world. I also downloaded his book and found a real gem. Since he’s a teacher, he incorporates science into the plot to make learning fun for young readers. I absolutely fell in love with his YA voice and his characters and am looking forward to his next book. Below is a summary of Mad Science Institute.




Sophia "Soap" Lazarcheck is a girl genius with a knack for making robots-and for making robots explode. After her talents earn her admission into a secretive university institute, she is swiftly drawn into a conspiracy more than a century in the making. Soap is pitted against murderous thugs, experimental weaponry, lizard monsters, and a nefarious doomsday device that can bring civilization to a sudden and very messy end.   



Welcome, Sechin!  

I had a professor who insisted that the best way to write a two-page paper was to write a 10 page paper, throw it all away, and then hand in pages 11 and 12. When I tell the same thing to my students, they don’t buy it. I can’t blame them: I didn’t really buy it either, not until I started writing novels.  



My professor’s point was that not all pages are created equal. Of course it takes more effort to write 10 or 12 bad pages than two bad pages, and maybe even more than two mediocre pages. But good pages require time and effort, as well as research, experimentation, structuring, restructuring, and a nearly endless amount of general fussing. At the very least, good pages require two steps: adding and cutting.  

I teach two discrete groups of students and I’ve found that each needs this advice for different reasons. One of my student groups consists of the crème-de-la-crème of our school’s scholars, students who take the most challenging courses, maintain the highest GPAs, and participate in every extracurricular activity that might sparkle on their college applications. My other group consists of at-risk kids in an alternative school program. Many of these students are extremely intelligent, but for a dizzying array of reasons none of them has had much success in school.  

The advanced students always want to build up their writing until it overflows. They do the research, they know the issues, they have the facts, and they want to pile it all in without any thought to purpose or readability. The bigger the better: if the assignment calls for two pages, then they assume 10 ought to get a better grade. If they run out of things to say, they resort to inflated words and ponderous sentences. Their writing often becomes a cluttered, colorless hallway that never leads anywhere.  

My alternative high-schoolers, on the other hand, bring a great deal of passion about anything they see as relevant to their lives. They are lively, colorful, and outspoken, but even on their favorite topics their writing is terse. For them, it’s about getting to the point. Why wade through the muck of evidence and logic when you can gallop right to the exciting conclusion? Why bother explaining anything if you feel like you already understand it?  

Although I didn’t know it at the time, I built a composite of these two groups when I wrote Mad Science Institute. I started by combining all the drive and technical know-how of the advanced students with the vitality and quirkiness of the alternative school kids. I crammed a lot into each character and just as much into the plot and setting, but in the cutting phase I eliminated everything that failed to accelerate the story or develop the characters. It meant cutting some perfectly good ideas, but that was okay: true to the mad science theme, I knew I could stitch them together and give them a new life whenever I was ready. Right then, all that mattered was pruning back and boiling down until the book became balanced and lean.  

Being a teacher helped me write a better novel, and writing a novel helped me become a better teacher. I’m not trying to teach my students to become novelists—I wouldn’t push it on them any more than a P.E. teacher would urge all of his students to aim for NFL careers—but what works for crafting a novel applies to essays, letters, and other forms of writing as well. By the end of each year, I’m gratified to see that those students who tended to add too much have learned to accomplish more with fewer words, and the ones who want to start too small learn that they need to build up before they can trim down.  

Despite what some students claim, the art of writing is nothing that can be mastered with a mere 16 or 17 years of practice. If I’m any better at it than a student, it isn’t because of what I’ve written but because of what I’ve un-written. Deleting the thousands of pages of rough drafts and practice novels was the only way I could learn what should stay and what just gets in the way, and by the time my students delete that many pages they’ll be better writers than I am.  

It seems to me that what you cut is as important as what you add, but maybe that’s just my process. I’d love to hear your opinions on the matter.  

What is your process? Are you a cutter or adder when it comes to editing?


Sechin’s website & twitter
 

Jump Around! Jump, Jump, Jump Around!

We've all heard it. We've all done it. That House of Pain hit "Jump Around" might have ridiculous lyrics, but it also has one of those beats that you just can't help but, well, jump around to.

And though most of us most likely would never admit to doing so, when we blare this song and actually "Jump Around," we have fun. 

Well, I've given in to that "Jump Around" philosophy where my writing is concerned, and I must admit that, though it's against my nature (I'm typically a "start at the beginning and write till the end" type guy), I'm having fun with it.

My current contracted WIP (notice I said "contracted." Yeah, that means I have more than one going right now. But, don't we all? lol) has been giving me a bit of grief as of late, and I'm falling behind on my deadline for that dreaded first draft. note: It's due by the end of the year. Yeah. No matter how hard I've tried, I just haven't been able to eke out more than a few words at a time--which really stinks, am I right?

But the other day, a great scene popped into my head, complete with dialogue and clear setting, and I had to snag a scrap piece of paper and jot down the basics of it before I forgot it. When I got home, I quickly opened said WIP and fleshed out the scene, which ultimately led to another scene and another scene. Score! But, I never would've gotten those three (yes, I said THREE) scenes down had I not been open to letting a scene farther into the book out of my head. If I had done what is typical of me and ignored it until I got to the point where it was needed, I would still be sitting here wishing for inspiration.

So the moral of today's post is this: Regardless of your norm when it comes to your writing, loosen the straps a bit and be willing to "Jump Around." 

You may just find that it's a lot more fun than you thought!

Oh, and just in case you wanna give it a listen (don't lie, you know you do), here's "Jump Around." Enjoy!