A Page From Winslow's Playbook

Okay, I'm going to be completely upfront about this: my brain's been on total information overload.  Not exactly fried, but being the workaholic I am, I haven't taken a weekend to do pretty much NOTHING for . . . well, forever.

Doing nothing wasn't the plan.  Remember: ten days ago, I finished the first pass-through revision for WHITE SPACE.  Since then, I've been cramming in information and beginning to outline the second book in the series.  So I had every intention of hitting the stacks of books I've amassed and get on with it already.

But Saturday conspired to do me in.  I don't know exactly what it was.  Could be that I was still pooped from dress rehearsal for the last symphony chorus performance of the season the night before.  When I woke up Saturday, I was cranky, worried about a couple pages, anxious that Brahms really would have the last laugh.  (Man, this guy was cruel when it came to count and syncopation.)  So I allowed myself to get sidetracked.  Listened to the whole piece again that morning.  Played around on an online site, making sure I had all the notes and the count down.

Then, I opened my email.  Big mistake.  Got into this very long discussion with a friend about the publishing world nowadays, and THAT led me to seek out a couple blogs I've recently neglected, and what THEY had to say made me even antsier because it was so CLEAR that I hadn't thought about some of the stuff they were talking about.  So I read that instead of doing the other reading I should've been doing. (Really, if you could see the mountain of books I'm digesting before I leave for that research trip to the UK in a couple weeks--and I could've sworn I'd taken a picture at some point--maybe you'd understand the fast boil going on inside my skull.  I have got to write a blog post about researching a historical; I just gotta.)

Anyway, when I looked up, it was already afternoon, and I thought, hell, get something done.  I did--there was a whole bunch of stuff, information and whatnot about characters, stewing in my head--but not nearly enough, and I found myself breaking off to go give Brahms another run-through. O.o  And then it was time to exercise and then there was the concert and, yes, we DESTROYED that Boito and gave the Brahms Requiem a real what-for.

Came home.  Drank half a martini.  Ate some cheese and bread.  Had a good cry over a silly chick-flick.  Got midway into Hoosiers, saw it was closing in on half past midnight and thought, Jeez, Ilsa, go to bed.

And then it was today, Sunday.  I'm a good daughter.  Of course, I called my mom, and then my kids called and we all yakked--and when I looked up, it was almost 1:00 p.m.

And I thought, hell.  (Actually, I thought something much stronger than that.)  Because, see, I really wanted to hammer on that outline, but I also wanted to make a cake because doing so always makes me feel like I've actually accomplished something.  There was exercise still to do as well, and then the husband was scheduled to come home from his week-long business/family trip.  We were supposed to go out to dinner.

I had an attack of the guilts like you can not believe.  Honestly, Catholics have nothing on Jews when it comes to guilt.  I was going to slink over to my desk and work.  Just forgo the cake and all that.

But then I saw this: 

And I thought: Ilsa, for God's sake, take a page from Winslow's playbook and cut yourself a break.  Let it go.  Kick back, make your cake, let the day and the weekend go . . . just this once.

So I did.  I made my Sunday cake, Strawberry Bundt with White Chocolate Ganache:

My husband came home just as I was turning it out, and we went to the gym.  He took me out to dinner.  We just got back, and he gave me a fab assortment of fancy vinegars.  [Two of my endearing qualities, he claims: I am a) a cheap date and b) very easy to please.]

So that's that.  I've officially blown off the day and the weekend, something I almost never do.  I've nothing profound to say, although I honestly do believe you guys ought to take a gander at the following blog posts from Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch because I think they raise interesting questions about where we, as writers, might be headed, and in the very near future.  Don't wait for my next post to comment either; if you've got feelings about what they're talking about, let's hear 'em and we can go from there.  I know they certainly got me thinking.

But, for now--this very rare weekend--I've let my overheated brain take a rest.  Pretty much.

I think it's time for a cat nap.

I’m the Guy with the Weird Name

Hello! My name is Sechin Tower and I’m thrilled to be joining the Adr3nalin3 team!

Since this is my first official post, I guess I should introduce myself. The first thing most people want to know about me is the deal with my name. The full story actually goes pretty deep—if I were a character in a book, I would even say it was at the heart of a character-building moment. I’m not saying my name choice was as dramatic as the murder of young Bruce Wayne’s or as emotional as Romeo’s eyes first meeting Juliet’s, but if there’s a parallel universe with a version of me who took another name, we probably turned out radically different.

The Details

The first thing I’ll tell you about my name is the last thing I tell most people: Sechin is actually my middle name. Few people know my first name, and that’s just fine because it’s less “me.”

“Sechin” is a Mongolian name, although you can probably see from my picture that I’m not Mongolian. It means “wise counselor,” and it was the title of Genghis Khan’s advisors. My parents picked this name because they were travelling abroad as students studying Chinese history and decided to give me a “fun” middle name. “What the heck,” I imagine them saying, “what’s in a name?”

There’s a lot in a name. To me, “Sechin” always seemed unique, exotic, whimsical, and perhaps even mystical. By contrast, my first name (we’ll say it’s “Norman” even though it isn’t) seemed formal, mundane, safe, and serious. One name was for use with strangers, the other for people who knew the real me.

My theory is that my parents used “Sechin” as a “crib name” that would be replaced by my “real” name when I grew up. Whatever the case, at a very young age I had the impression that someday I would need to assume my “real” first name, the same way I would have to tie my own shoes, eat brussel sprouts, and pay taxes. Someday I would have to become “Normal Norman.”

The Choice

Back then, I the start of kindergarten seemed like the day I should start growing up. I thought I was so old! It sounds funny now, but it seemed like a huge step at the time.

I remember the teacher writing name cards for each of our desks. She asked my name and I told her Sechin, so she started writing that on a card. But then I remembered that I was supposed to be a big boy now, so I told her that I should probably go by my first name instead. So she wrote that on a card, too, and then placed both cards in front of me and told me I would need to pick one and stick to it.

It seems like such a minor decision, but I remember feeling the weight of a momentous choice. Each of those names represented a different path through life: the normal path with the normal name, or the unusual one with the weird name. One would allow me to fit in, the other—for better or worse—would mark me as different from the moment of introduction.

It took me a long time to decide, but you already know what I picked. The moment I grabbed the card that said “Sechin,” I felt an electric thrill of victory. That moment somehow rippled through all my subsequent choices, and it empowered me to take many of the roads less traveled. I’ve done plenty of unusual things: I’ve created daring and outrageous Halloween costumes, lived in China, trained in Brazillian Jiujitsu and obstacle racing, and—always above all else—followed my dream to be a writer. My experiments frequently leave me bruised (emotionally as well as physically), but the rewards have always outweighed the costs.

The Parallel Universe

Maybe I’m leaning too much on this one moment, but I like to think that somewhere there is a parallel universe with a version of me that made the other choice. In that universe, “Normal Norman” Tower probably wears a gray flannel suit and drives a sensible car to his job as an investment banker. We have some things in common: we’re both hard workers, both insatiably curious people, and both eat brussel sprouts. But the big difference is that he keeps his middle name secret because he’s afraid of showing too much personality. He probably also hates his job and feels dead inside. I’m glad I made the other decision, because I feel exactly the opposite way.

But enough about me. I’ve never really talked to anyone else about their “formative moments,” so I wonder if other people can remember similar crossroads in their lives. If you’ve ever come to a point that split you forever from the parallel universe version of you, I would love it if you left a comment here to tell me about it. If you haven’t, I’d still love to hear you say “Hi!”

Be good, and dream crazy dreams,

Sechin Tower is a teacher, a table-top game designer, and the author of Mad Science Institute. You can read more about him and his books on SechinTower.com and his games on SiegeTowerGames.com

Spring Cleaning your Manuscript: Part 2

Hi, P. J. Hoover here, and I'm back to talk about spring cleaning once again. If you missed it a couple weeks ago, I decided spring was the perfect opportunity to spring clean your manuscript. If you missed Part 1, you can find it here. Otherwise, it's on to Part 2, in which I dig a little bit deeper!

Here are 5 more ways to Spring Clean your Manuscript…

1) The beats

Some beats in a manuscript are great. Some are kind of in the middle. And then some...they are pretty much worthless.If you're like me, you throw these needless beats into the story without even thinking about them. You revise without ever noticing them. And you know what? They are so inconsequential, we are blind to them. "He laughed." "She turned." "He smiled." I know what you're thinking. But my characters are really doing these things. It doesn't matter. The reader doesn't need to be told. They will figure it out.

2) The names

As with a title change, sometimes characters need a fresh, new start. When you started your story, you probably named your characters for really deep meanings. Do these meanings still matter? Does a clunking or confusing character name make the story harder to follow? Do you have too many clever nicknames for people? Basics are good when it comes to names. So go through and re-think them. See if naming your supporting character something new will spark a nice new perspective.

3) The tags

Every time someone speaks, they do not need a dialogue tag. Sure, some are very nice to help the reader follow along. After all, the reader doesn't know your characters as well as you do. But every single piece of dialogue does not need a "he said" or a "she said." Once you pare down your tags, simplify them. Characters say things. They don't have to grumble them or exclaim them or even snap them. Said is the least intrusive and generally the safest way to go.


4) The doubt

Depending on who your main character is, consider how much doubt would be in their point of view. When you character has dialogue or internal monologue, how would they phrase it? "I think we should go to the park" or "We should go to the park." How confident is your main character and how much do they take action?


5) The stereotypes

There is no room for characters that fit the mold. Help your characters step out and be different than their stereotypical counterparts. Remove your bitchy cheerleaders and your dumb jocks. Craft your nerds to be more than glasses-wearing kids who carry around too many books. Sure, some traits belong with certain types of people. But that doesn't mean the characters have to be stereotypes. They can be whoever they want to be.


Happy Spring! And Happy Writing and Revising!

*****

P. J. Hoover is the author of the upcoming dystopia/mythology YA book, SOLSTICE (Tor Teen, June 2013), the upcoming Egyptian mythology MG book, TUT (Tor Children's, Winter 2014), and the middle-grade SFF series, THE FORGOTTEN WORLDS BOOKS (CBAY, 2008-2010). You can read more about her and her books on P. J.'s website or blog.

If Ever I Stray

 By Dan Haring

I was racking my brain all weekend trying to come up with a post for today. But I got nothing. I headed into work this morning, thinking maybe inspiration would strike. But after working most of the day, I'm still coming up empty. Possibly because I just turned in a new revision to my agent this weekend, and my mind is catching up on some needed rest. Whatever the reason, I'm drawing a blank.

So I thought I'd turn the time over to Frank Turner for some words of inspiration:

Love is free and life is cheap
As long as I've got me a place to sleep
Clothes on my back and some food to eat
I can't ask for anything more

I think this holds true for wherever you are in life. It's easy to get caught up in the negative things and forget how much we really have. I can honestly say I couldn't ask for anything more in my life, and I hope you can say the same. Keep smiling, keep living, and keep writing!