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Blog Share Day!

by Ramona DeFelice Long

About a year ago, after a conversation with a writing friend about encouragement and personal accountability, I created a Facebook group for writers called How Many Pages Did You Write Today?  My purpose was to provide a place for writers to share their productivity–or lack thereof–and converse online with other writers.

A year and 130+ members later, HMPDYWT? is going strong. Every day, members pop up to share how many pages  they have written, or why they haven’t written, or what they are writing. Questions are asked. Advice is given. Occasionally, the whip is cracked, but mostly the cheerleading flows freely.

A rule applies at HMPDYWT?–no links, please. I created the group so members would post to the Wall and stay on the Wall. But because we have so many active bloggers, today is Blog Share Day. Members are invited to post a link to personal blogs and tell a little about what they post.

Join us!

Ramona


Officer Heck? Yeah!

by Ramona DeFelice Long

Over the weekend, I had a fun little discussion with my pals at How Many Pages Did You Write Today? about character names. We tossed out ways to find good names (baby name books, spam files, newspaper stories) and how a character’s name may reveal something about the person. In the course of the discussion, I mentioned my character name pet peeve.

My character name pet peeve is the cop named Mike.

Mike must be the go-to name when inventing a police character because I run across fictional Officer Mikes all the time. It’s not a bad thing, necessarily. Following the idea that a name tells about the character, the abundance of Officer Mikes make sense, in that the patron saint of police officers is Saint Michael the Archangel.

St. Michael the Archangel is usually depicted with wings, a sword, and holding scales of justice. If you are raised as a Roman Catholic, you are taught this is because Michael is the sworn enemy of Satan and the leader of the Army of God. He is one of the angels present at the hour of death to protect the souls of the dying. On Judgment Day, Michael weighs a person’s record of good deeds. He is a guardian and protector of the Catholic Church.

Add all of that up–sword, scales, guardian, protector–and no wonder a child named Michael might grow up to be a cop. It may be a chicken and egg kind of thing–the classic self-fulfilling prophecy–and this is why I see so many manuscripts with Mikes running around protecting and serving.

But maybe it’s time to give Officer Mike a rest. I’d like to propose a new go-to name for cops.

Heck.

Heck? Officer Heck? Are you laughing? Rolling your eyes?

Think about Sheriff Heck Tate, as portrayed by the character actor Frank Overton in the 1962 film, To Kill A Mockingbird.

In Harper Lee’s novel, Heck Tate doesn’t get a lot of page time. When he does appear, his actions are pivotal. It is Heck Tate who brings Tom Robinson to the next county to await trial, which shows how well the small town sheriff understands the mood and prejudices of the citizens in his jurisdiction.

It is Heck Tate who arrives with Atticus Finch when a mad dog is in the street. In this scene, Heck Tate acknowledges who is the better shot and asks Atticus to take down the dog. He puts aside whatever macho pride or male ego he may possess when he hands over that shotgun. He even teases Jem that didn’t he know his father was the best shot in Maycomb County–an important moment that lets the son see his father as an autonomous man, not just as a parent, for the first time.

It is Heck Tate who ultimately exercises what modern law enforcement calls officer discretion. Sheriff Tate has lived in Maycomb all of his life. He knows everyone in town. He obviously knows how to read a crime scene, even when his witnesses are an unconscious boy with a broken arm; a grown man hidden away for so long, he’s become mute; a scared little girl in a ham costume; and a dead man on the ground.

It is Heck Tate who knows what limelight would do to a shy fella like Boo Radley, and so it is Sheriff Heck Tate who fulfills his duty to protect Maycomb’s mockingbird.

“I may not be much, Mr. Finch, but I’m still sheriff of Maycomb County and Bob Ewell fell on his knife.”

Let the dead bury the dead, is Heck Tate’s advice. Wise words, right? I wonder if this level of officer discretion would be possible today, or if Heck Tate would be the subject of an Internal Affairs investigation by the time the credits rolled?

But I digress.

If St. Michael the Archangel made Mike a good name for cops, Heck is no slouch in the meaning department. I will be a little presumptive here and assume Harper Lee meant Heck as a shortened form of Hector.

The name Hector is Greek. It means “holding fast.” In mythology, Hector was a fearless warrior prince, the older brother of Paris. Hector’s death during the Battle of Troy was a terrible blow to the Trojans, not only because he was a brave and fierce fighter, but because Hector was wholly honorable. After Hector was killed, Achilles, who killed him, dragged Hector’s body behind his chariot for twelve days in an attempt to shame and humiliate the noble Trojan prince, but even the gods admired Hector. They took pity on him in death and protected his body from abuse.

Eventually, the Trojan War was halted for twelve days so that the people of Troy could serve Hector with proper funeral rites. He is remembered in art and literature as one of the Nine Worthies.

Today, when a police officer dies in the line of duty, legions of his fellow officers participate in public, traditional funerals meant to honor the fallen officer for making the ultimate sacrifice. I don’t know that this tradition goes back to the mythology of Hector, but it seems right.

So, Officer Heck. A fierce fighter whose name means “holding fast.” A person infused with honor. Someone prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. I would feel safe with such a man protecting my town. 

You?

Needless to Say, or Write

by Ramona DeFelice Long

If something is needless to say, why do we say it?

“Needless to say” acts as a disclaimer. It means that whatever the speaker (or writer) plans to say next, doesn’t need to be said. The speaker understands and acknowledges this through the use of the disclaimer–but says it anyway. Why we persist in saying something that doesn’t need to be said doesn’t make much sense, but the phrase is a common one.  Proof? I just used it in the title. Needless to say, I thought it was catchy.

A disclaimer phrase acts as a lead-in–or, perhaps, a warning. Consider the phrase “No offense, but….” Anyone who has ever said, or heard, or been in the vicinity of anyone who has ever said or heard, “No offense, but…” knows what’s coming next. Something offensive.

“No offense, but…” is a lead-in that gives the soon-to-be-offended party time to prepare.  Unfortunately, it’s probably not enough time to run away and not have to hear whatever ignorant, unflattering or insulting comment the speaker feels compelled to make, which just by saying “No offense, but…” shows the speaker knows s/he should not be saying it. “No offense, but…” is a somewhat more polite way of saying, “Brace yourself, I’m about to insult you.”

As I edit manuscripts, I find quite a few disclaimers and lead-ins. I also find words that are needless to write. Sometimes it’s repetition or redundancy.

Example: “She gave a final, last push against the door.”

Final and last? This reminds me of when I tried to train my dog to sit. I was an inexperienced dog owner. I didn’t know about first you say, then you show. I would give the command–“Sit!”–and my dog would continue to stand. Usually,  she’d wag her tail, to show she was happy I was talking to her. Instead of reaching out and pushing her bottom to the pavement to demonstrate “Sit!” I would repeat the command. Over and over. I’m sure, at least once, I said, “This is the final,  last time I tell you to sit!”

My dog never learned to sit properly.

Here’s another example: “He popped off a quick fast jab.”

This may be for style or effect, but it’s still overkill.  The use of words that mean the same thing, twice, don’t add information. They just add to the word count.  As a reader, I am reading more words, without learning any more information.

This one reminds me of word problems in math: “John was taking the train to Baltimore, so if the train traveled at the normal speed for 10 miles and a quick fast speed for 15 miles, what time would John arrive at the aquarium?”

I was never any good at word problems.  

Oftentimes, needlessly offensive words hang around our body parts.  

Example: “I nodded my head.”

Your head? Really? As opposed to nodding your foot?  Your elbow? Your spleen?

Example: “I shrugged my shoulders.”

Shoulders are the #1 recipient of shrugs. #2 would be…there is no #2 in shrugging. You shrug your shoulders because no other body part can be shrugged.  You can “shrug it off” but the “it” is relative, and no matter what “it” is, if you shrug it, your shoulders are involved. You can shrug off your jacket, but again, there are the shoulders. Face it. Shrugging = shoulders. Which means, you don’t have to write it down. It’s understood.

Example: “I waved my hand goodbye.”

“Wave” is a fine example of a verb that can be applied to a plethora of choices. You can wave a flag. You can wave a handkerchief. You can wave your hair. Wave is a busy little verb. But if you write, “I waved my hand goodbye,” you’re wasting words. “I waved goodbye” is good enough. We know your hand was involved.

It’s akin to writing, “My legs ran across the road.” Think how busy your legs would be if you included them in every sentence. “I bent my legs at the knees and sat.” “I propelled my legs forward in a speedy motion and ran.” “I used my legs muscles to raise myself and stood up.” Do we write this way? No. We write, “I sat.” “I ran.” “I stood up.” 

This reminds me of one of my favorite sayings about writing: Characters sleep and go to the bathroom, but that doesn’t mean I want to read about it.

And no offense, but…if you are including all that stuff about the legs, you need to work on your writing. 

Does this apply to every body part and verb? No. “Cross” can apply to a range of body parts. You can cross your arms, your legs, your eyes, your ankles. (You can also cross your enemy to show danger, cross off a tip, or cross yourself to show faith, but that’s another blog.) So if you write “I crossed” you need to add a body part.

Ditto on licked: “I looked into his handsome face and licked my lips.”

Now leave out the body part. “I looked into his handsome face and licked.”

That might be fun, but it sure changes the meaning, doesn’t it?

Language can be general, or it can be specific. Meaning can be interpreted. Word count, however, is a number. If you don’t need extra words, don’t add them. If you do, you’ll make the reader work unnecessarily hard, and that might make them late to catch the train to the aquarium.

And needless to say, this is the final last time I will write about it.

Guest Blogging at the Working Stiffs

by Ramona DeFelice Long

I like old things. I don’t need to pretty it up and call it classic or vintage. Old is fine.

I also like odd names, which is good when you have a family like mine.

Tablecloths, cake platters and funny family names. This is the discussion today at the Working Stiffs. My post is called “In With The Old.” I’ve also share my sooper-sekrit metal cake cover trick.

Working on my Woo-Woo

by Ramona DeFelice Long

A couple of weeks ago, someone told me I was scary.

Me? Come on. I’m short. I have curly hair. One of my favorite colors is pink. My office (aka “The Bunker”) is functional, but it’s also prettily decorated–dare I say, even feminine. I’ve hung vintage dessert plates on the wall, for pete’s sake! How could someone like this be threatening?

But then I saw a photo of this person…

who is also short, with curly hair, wears pink and likes vintage china. 

Oh dear.

Whatever you’ve heard, I am not the Dolores Umbridge of editing.

After pondering (aka “flipping out”) about it for a few days, I finally understood that the person meant “scary” in a Stern English Teacher kind of way. It wasn’t me in particular who was frightening, either. It was the idea of working with me, and not me in particular, either, but any editor. It was the concept of having his writing project read, judged and critiqued that gave him the heebies.

Whew. Glad we cleared that up.

I was also encouraged when, at the Pennwriters Conference last week, a person told a group that I was a good editor, but more importantly, I left a writer with her dignity intact.

Another whew.

Nevertheless, I’m glad that the “You’re kind of scary” comment was made. Not unlike characters in the works I read, it’s good for people to change and grow. I’ve been thinking of ways to change and grow as an editor.

Hence, I am working on my woo-woo.

In case you’re not familiar, woo-woo is the term writers (and others) give to all things supernatural, touchy-feely, paranormal, or emotion-based. Ying, yang.  It’s your Zen, man.

This is sort of not me. I’m not New Age, I’m Old French. I jab at voodoo dolls instead of applying a healing touch, and the closest thing I have to a touchstone is a Jane Austen finger puppet.

But hey, grow and change. I like a good paranormal story as well as the next girl, and I’ve got some Dashboard Confessional on my iPod.

There are some editors who are big on telling their clients to go out into a field, sit on a rock and ponder the possibilities of their characters. I don’t do this. I’m more of the sit your butt in your chair and wrestle with character consistency until you get it right. Or, go for a walk and think about it, but bring a notepad, because if you don’t, you’ll have a brilliant epiphany 2.3 miles from your house, and you’ll have to run home, and by then you’ll have forgotten the brilliant epiphany. Been there, done that, friends.

But maybe because it’s been raining all week, the idea of sitting on a rock in a field while pondering the possibilities sounds appealing.

Grow and change, grow and change.

But…how? This is the challenge. Where does a practical person like moi begin on this path to be more woo-woo?

So. Have you found enlightenment beyond the glue-your-butt-to-the-chair method? Something esoteric or emo? How did you grow and change to see possibilities?

Please tell me. If you do, I might let you play with my Jane Austen finger puppet.

Ramona


by Ramona DeFelice Long

Get Out & Write! Community Free Write

Saturday, May 28, 10:00 a.m. – Noon

Kirkwood Library Community Room

A free write is an informal gathering of writers who meet to practice their writing. Free writing can help you discover new story ideas, dissolve writer’s block, or move forward on a work in progress. Most importantly, free writing is fun and a great way to fellowship with other writers!

The series is open to anyone interested in writing. Writers of all skill levels are welcome. Bring a notebook, pen/pencil or laptop. There is no charge. No RSVP is required. Just show up with a desire to write.

Post-Pennwriters Depression

by Ramona DeFelice Long

This weekend in Pittsburgh, while serving cup #761 of conference coffee, I heard a jingly sound behind me. This sent my finely developed jewelry radar on red alert. Sure enough, when I turned around to check it out, behind me was an arm with four silver bangles on it. Attached to the arm was a Pennwriter.

“Oh, I love your bracelets!” I said and held out my arm to show her mine. When you are a bracelet junkie, this is the proper show-off protocol.

I wear three silver bracelets.  Always. I add others for variety, but these three are my constants. One I bought at the French Quarter when it first opened after Katrina; one is a treasured gift from a special friend; the third is a solace bracelet I treated myself to after bombing a public reading at the Pure Sea Glass Writers Conference in Rehoboth.

(How do you know you’ve bombed a reading? Maybe your gut says you were off your game, but the audience politely applauded, so you tell yourself it couldn’t have been that awful, right? But later, someone approaches you at the bar to say, “I was at your reading and I wanted to tell you, I really like your shoes”–that’s how you know. I fled the bar and ducked into a local artist’s gallery and soothed my wounded pride by buying myself a cute bracelet.)

Back to the Pennwriters Conference. After I gushed over hers and showed off mine, the woman started to remove one of her bangles. I watched in shock as she pulled it over her wrist and fingers and then handed it to me. Of course I protested (albeit weakly), but thirty seconds after I admired this stranger’s bracelets, she had given one to me.

That, friends, is what happens in a community of artists. For four days, the 200+ writers gathered in Pittsburgh gave to one another. Some gave advice on Facebook and LinkedIn; some lent a practice ear to pitches; some served M&Ms; some gave hugs or thumbs up as needed. The best part was, no one had to ask. The offerings were instinctive and sincere. This is what we do.

At my Mastering the Art of Self-Editing workshop on Thursday, I handed out plastic bracelets to the attendees and said they were editing bracelets. I explained that a writer works with a creative mind, but an editor must work with a critical eye. The bracelets were a mental aid, to remind them to shift gears from the creative to the critical.

I wear my three bracelets to remind me of important moments in my life. Now I have a fourth. How often in life do you admire something, and it is given to you, immediately, without expectation of anything given in return?

It was a small but beautiful moment that I will always remember. I am grateful to the lovely lady who handed me the bracelet off her arm in a gesture of camaraderie, but she was not the only person generous to me at Pennwriters.

I am grateful to the person who broke the awkward silence at the end of one of my sessions by asking a pity question.

I am grateful to the woman who brought up Rebecca as an example at my story arc workshop.

I am grateful to the writers who trusted me to read their openings.

I am grateful to the brave individuals who participated in the read and critique session.

I am grateful to every person who offered a personal origin story about how they became writers.

I am grateful to everyone who attended my workshops, chatted with me in the Hospitality Room and offered their experiences and friendship.

I am grateful to the Pittsburgh Chapter of Sisters in Crime for the Saturday dinner invite.

And I am grateful to Julie and Meredith for putting together a flawless conference.

I was sad to leave my friends–both old and new–in Pittsburgh, hence the title of this post. I came home with much more than I gave, and I am grateful for that, too.

*sniffle*

Ramona

PS – They were really cute shoes. 

DLC Workshop Announcement

by Ramona DeFelice Long

SUBURBAN  NOIR: WRITING FROM THE DARK SIDE OF LIFE

A Workshop on the Craft of Writing Noir Fiction sponsored by The Delaware Literary Connection and presented by MARY PAUER, MFA

 Saturday, May 14, 2011, 10:00 a.m. – 2:30 p.m., Dover Sheraton Hotel

How do they do it, those skilled writers who build characters that fall victim to their own fatal flaws, who come face to face with the dark side of life in the middle of the night and run screaming from their beds?  Join the DLC and Mary Pauer, MFA, for a workshop delving into emotional noir.  Utilizing short stories from noir author Joyce Carol Oates, we will explore the nuances of writing noir and try our hand at in-class exercises.  Participants will be assigned several Oates’ stories to read prior to the workshop (materials provided by the DLC), and these will kick off our exploration of this popular genre.

The workshop will be held at the Dover Sheraton Hotel, 1570 North DuPont Highway, Dover DE  19901, just a few blocks from a convenient Route 1 exit.  Registration opens at 9:45 a.m. Cost:  $30/person, which includes lunch at the popular Sheraton buffet.   The workshop is limited to 10 participants.  Please contact graybeg@comcast.net  to register.  Registration is open until 7:00 p.m. on Wednesday, May 11, 2011.

Fish Tales

by Ramona DeFelice Long

UPDATE: Trade-size paperback is available at these and other fine booksellers:

Mystery Lovers Bookshop; Barnes & Noble; Amazon

Fish Tales, an anthology of 22 short crime stories by the Sisters in Crime Guppy Chapter, is now available as an ebook! The print version will be out soon.

I was honored to edit this collection for the talented new crop of mystery writers.

Fish Tales may be purchased in ebook format through Amazon; Barnes and Noble; Lybrary.com; Mobipocket.

A Thousand Paper Cranes

by Ramona DeFelice Long

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes tells the true story of Sadako Sasaki, a young victim and witness of the bombing of Hiroshima.

A Japanese legend tells that, if a person folds one thousand paper cranes they will be granted a wish. Sadako tried to do this, but she only folded 644 cranes before she became too ill to continue. Her wish to live was not granted.

However, her story lives. A statue of Sadako was built in Hiroshima Peace Park. People visiting it leave paper cranes in her memory and honor, and in the memory and honor of the spirits of their deceased ancestors and relatives.

This is a beautiful, heart-wrenching book. Today, sadly, it is newly relevant.

Please read this story. Share it with a child. Make a paper crane in memory of the people who died in Japan, and to show support for those suffering there now. Hang it from the mirror in your car or place it in a window in your home.

Remember the following quote, which is found on Sadako’s statue: “This is our cry. This is our prayer. Peace on Earth.”