More Lessons from Six Sentence Sunday: Of Sizzle and Slush

I signed up for Six Sentence Sunday again this week, so I know what I’m going to be doing this Sunday: reading other people’s posts.

Thank heaven for browsers with tabs. I go through the list of links for the week, more or less in order, and open twenty tabs at a time. I read each entry a couple of times and then see if I have anything to say; if so, I say it, right away. When I’ve read the last one, I close up that batch of twenty links and open the next batch.

I do my Six Sentence Sunday reading in more than one session. I want my eyes and ears fresh, attuned to the sizzle of wanting to read more, ready to make the effort to lay hands on what works and wrap words around it in a way that will be useful to the author — and ultimately to me. The better I become at reading other people’s work, the more ruthlessly I edit my own. Know what works, and cut what doesn’t.

From time to time I open a link and it starts playing music. I curse, close it as fast as I can (often having to close a whole lot of other tabs before identifying the real offender), and then blackball it. It’s a consent issue. It’s fine if you have video or audio content on your site, but you have to give me the choice about clicking to play it. Force it on me, and you’re in the same class with neighbors who “share” musical selections cranked to 10 at two o’clock in the morning.

Six Sentence Sunday reminds me that I’m not only a writer but a reader. Going through 120 authors’ links and reading them all gives me sympathy for those who read for a living and don’t have the option of taking long and luxurious breaks: freshman composition graders, for example, or editorial interns reading their way through the slush pile.

Ah yes, the slush pile. One of my writers’ groups has invited editors from literary magazines to speak about editorial process. What stands out is that they accept maybe a few percent of all manuscripts sent them, but they read them all.

Or at least they start reading them.

Second hand a friend-of-a-friend who reads slush: “One bad sentence and I’m out of there.” In spite of stated manuscript submission guidelines, he still gets the rose-scented manuscripts on pink paper. (Guess what happens to those.) I’m in complete, merciless agreement with that: if I were staring at a pile of manuscripts, I’d be finding any excuse to get them off my desk. It’s like grading papers, only you don’t have to write comments. So you look at that six sentence opener…

… that is, if the link doesn’t play loud music without my consent (the web equivalent of scented paper), or indulge itself in background graphics that make the foreground text illegible, or bury the excerpt in a pile of annotation.

Write (the first) six sentences with sizzle, make the rest live up to the promise, and I might win the jackpot in the Slush Pile Sweepstakes.

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Six Sentence Sunday, 24 July 2011 (The Shape-shifter’s Tale)

I walked across the bridge, watching the wind ruffle the leaves and bits of disused trash blow across the sidewalk: a playbill from a cabaret evening, a lottery ticket, a torn bit of newspaper no longer legible. It didn’t matter. They’d long since stopped reporting the new witch hunts, the burnings and the bludgeonings. I remembered someone talking about days of terror in Latin America and this had something of the same feeling. Around the time that I was fourteen years old, the world had begun to change. I didn’t realize it at the time, because I was changing and so it made perfect sense that the world would change with me.

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What I am learning from Six Sentence Sunday

Well, I just signed up for Six Sentence Sunday, yet again, and I’m thinking about what I find so compelling about this exercise.

The opportunity to see the work of other writers. Most of the folks writing it are doing romance or erotica, genres that I would claim I don’t write, except… I want my romance threads to have the same compelling character as well-crafted romance, and my sex scenes to be as intense as great erotica. So there you go. Never say never, is a marvelous rule of life.

The quest for the six sentence snippet that will compel attention. And what do I look for? Elegant language, movement, a little twist at the end. Like a poem. Six sentences isn’t a lot of room, so it gets me thinking about editing. The pleasures of the knife are definitely an acquired taste, but once I’m done generating raw draft, and I’ve gotten my first-draft beta readers’ reactions back, then I start looking ruthlessly for what can be cut. And the six-sentence snippet is a really good place to start.

It reminds me of why I read poetry. As a novelist, I’m a long-form writer, but as a reader of poetry, I like the short form best, though not exclusively. Haiku would be the limiting case, and the quatrains of Emily Dickinson and Marina Tsvetaeva (so musical that they memorize themselves). What makes it poetry? Arresting language, compelling rhythm, brilliant images and music: which is to say, the requirements for scene-setting that doesn’t bore the reader with yards of “description.”

Borrow the techniques of dialogue from playwrights, and description from short-form poets, and I’m on the road to good novel-writing.

The joy of eavesdropping. What I’ve learned from reading other people’s Six Sentence Sunday postings is how much I fill in about a situation from overhearing a brief snatch of dialogue, or (in the case of description) an eyeblink glimpse of a scene. Some writers give context before or after the snippet, but I’ve taken to reading the snippet first, forming my own notion of what’s going on, and then reading the “front matter” or “back matter” to confirm.

Never apologize, never explain. At readings, I formed the habit of giving very brief or no introduction to work I read. The work should stand on its own without curator’s notes, and for the most part it does, even a six-sentence snippet.

And if the six lines don’t stand on their own, then that’s the time to take out the knife.

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Six Sentence Sunday: 17 July 2011 (The Shape-shifter’s Tale)

On my way out, I stopped at the restroom. There are two of them, two little rooms side by side, decorated with photographs in frames and chandeliers with dangling lusters overhead. As I washed my hands, I looked at the photo on the wall: Oscar Wilde’s tomb in Paris, covered with lipstick traces. People leave their kisses on it from all over the world. You can die alone and wretched and despised, and then by some twist be kissed—well, not you, but the stone over your decomposing remains—for decades if not centuries after you’re dead.

It’s one of the observations that make me feel ancient and cynical, like one of those leather-jacketed vampires surveying the world from the cold height of five hundred years of hunger.

Yes, our hero(ine) lives in a strange world, in which the vamps resemble “leather daddies with a bad attitude,” to quote my Brain Sister and Writing Buddy.

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Six Sentence Sunday: 10 July 2011 (The Shape-shifter’s Tale)

“Babushka tells me lots of stories. How the forest witches came to Petersburg after the deforestation.”

“Why not go further east?”

“That was already taken.”

I thought of the fox I’d seen that morning, trotting through the imitation English cloister of the University Baptist Church. It made sense that wild creatures—and maybe magical ones too—had been driven into the cities by the loss of habitat.

The first speaker is Max, who was mentioned in last week’s Six Sentence Sunday excerpt.

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Writing with friends, or the fine art of getting it done

One of the mysteries of writing, or indeed any art form, is the gravitation of audience. If somebody’s paying attention in a friendly way, sometimes even if they’re just in the same room, it works.

I’m musing on this Eternal Truth this afternoon after a write-in with six newfound Best Writing Buddies, some of whom I know from Ye Olde Day Jobbe and some of whom are friends of said Writing Buddies. We reserved a conference room at the public library, brought our writing implements–notebooks, laptops, Alphasmart Neos–and our headsets, and had at it like wild things. It’s called a write-in, and it’s a NaNoWriMo thing. And you would understand, because it’s just this simple:

Write. Just write. Don’t worry about whether it’s any good, just let one thing follow another. That’s what the headset and juicy music are for. It’s like distracting the toddler with a toy: my Internal Censor seems to resonate to the same frequency as the piece of my brain that wants to parse Finnish into something intelligible. So I listen to rockin’ Nordic Roots music with Finnish lyrics, and the inner demon forgets to tell me that I am a crap writer.

The company of others provides Positive Peer Pressure; the sound of their tippytapping keeps my fingers nimbly rockin’ on.

The true mystery is this: why do I write more, and more wildly, in company than alone?

And what language will silence the censor, if I ever learn Finnish?

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What I write, and why

What I write is the novel. Why write the novel? Because it is the most exciting thing in the world. It is a world, the next best thing to being god of my own universe. Writers dream awake, just like readers. I call up a world and if I take good enough notes, you can come along on the long strange trip that’s the real reason that I write.

Stephen King, in On Writing, said it best of all: writing is telepathy. As I think about this particular night in July, a thick Midwestern night with trees tossing and fans blowing and the world strange under pools of lamplight and dark between, if I describe it well enough I can call it up for you. I can invite you in and you can walk around in it.

I read for enjoyment on the first pass, industrial espionage on the subsequent ones. If I enjoy a book, it has things to teach me. I’m fascinated as well by the interaction of books with their times.

The best novels, the ones I love the best anyway, are worlds unto themselves. Nothing chills my ardor faster than finding a thin place in a fictional world, a place where walls buckle as if they were cardboard, where the sky shows itself as fluorescent light. I need to believe that if I step through that door, I’ll find another room; that the character who just walked through the scene has a life independent of the proceedings here, both before the entrance and after the exit.

To step upon the dueling ground: I don’t recognize ‘pulp’ versus ‘literary’ fiction, but if I had to choose a side, I’d stand with the pulp folks, because they’ve got earth under their feet and the weight of thousands of years of storytelling behind them. I’ll be writing about this and other issues in a series of posts called ‘Border Skirmishes’.

Then to take the opposite point of view: I found the discussion of ‘literary merit’ and ‘canon’ very off-putting when I was in secondary school, but since then, I have found numerous works of literary criticism that have been useful and even inspiring for my work as an artist. I’ll be writing about some of them in an upcoming post called ‘The Best Books for Writers … That Aren’t’.

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Six Sentence Sunday, 3 July 2011 (The Shape-shifter’s Tale)

When I met Max, I was a boy, which is not to say that I’m a boy right now. I was black-haired, hazel-eyed, six feet tall and burly: a good look, a safe look for that afternoon and evening. I put on the best skin for walking the city, and often it’s safer to change sex. To be inconspicuous as a man, it’s important to have been inconspicuous as a woman, and I am a little brown sparrow of a person. I was a sparrow this morning. That still shows in the way my brain is hopping from place to place: quick, sharp, beating my wings against the brisk wind, throwing my shadow on the sidewalk below.

Special thanks to my writing buddy Devin Harnois for telling me about the wonders of Six Sentence Sunday.

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In which Your Humble Author is introduced, and the fun begins

Hello, Dear Readers! My name is E. P. Beaumont, and here are a few facts about me:

I’m a writer and a reader. I’m also a shape-shifter with a writer’s resume, which means that in real life, or what passes for it, I have six or seven different resumes, depending on what kind of day job I’m angling for. Day jobs thus far have not included driving hack, working on a whaling ship, or gigs in the intelligence services, but that still leaves me a lot of material. I write what I know, make up what I don’t, and research like a demon to fill in the gaps, which works just fine, because:

I’m a print addict. I read widely (and wildly) and I like to think aloud about what I’m reading, so my posts here will include some number of book reviews. Subjects on which I’m obsessive include: other writers, race, sex, class, military history, history of technology, philosophy, mathematics, literary criticism, literary and intellectual lineages, art history, artistic practice, and the places where all of the above cross.

I write all over the place. My work as a writer sits on the border between genres, and my rite of passage was learning to write it first and classify it later. So my posts here also will include some notes on writing process, my own and other writers’. I hope that readers and writers alike will find them entertaining and helpful. There are 64,000 paths to salvation and at least that many ways to write a novel.

If you want to see the kind of thing I like to write, check out my Works in Progress. I’ll be adding to this list as time goes one, and hopefully some time in the near future, I will be adding a page for ‘Published Works’. In the meantime, I will be sharing brief excerpts of my work weekly as part of the Six Sentence Sunday: that’s six lines from a work in progress, no more and no less. Special thanks to the inimitable Devin Harnois for turning me on to this entertaining challenge.

Last, I’m a huge fan of National Novel Writing Month, otherwise known as the International Festival of First Draft, and come November, I’ll be sending dispatches from the front as, alongside hundreds of thousands of colleagues across the world, I take up the challenge of producing a finished first-draft novel manuscript in a month.

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Welcome!

E. P. Beaumont now has a home on the web. Thank you for your patience as we build this site!

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