Ok, I’m putting my neck on the line here and naming the most common pitfalls I have seen emerging talents fall into. In today’s blog, I baldly name and shame what I would happily never encounter again:
- An entire chapter revolving around a character walking or driving from A-B alone, interspersed by long passages of back story.
- An entire chapter set around
a character in bed/in nature/alone reminiscing. - Melodramatic chapter cliff hangers. Your story is either engrossing or not. A pining character is not the answer.
- Making the same point in ten different ways –all on the same page.
- Belabouring the point. [See above]
- Describing objects/landscapes/surroundings in miniscule detail over countless pages. Poetry is a gift not a licence.
And I can say all this because, early on as a writer, I have been guilty of most of the above. Ok, who am I kidding? I have been guilty of all of the above at one time or another. And so, today, I invite you to kill off your darlings publicly. Copy and paste them in the comment section of Writers & Artists and, like sealing an envelope, let it go. If the piece is that good, someone will surely encourage you to put it back in.
I’ll begin...
“Retreating to the cabin’s bedroom in the cool peach light of mid-afternoon, Dorothy felt the contours of Katy’s lumpy rucksack one last time before sliding it under the wooden frame of the bed. She had discerned the outline of several boot heels inside, an oversized toiletries bag, and then the corner of something hard and rectangular. Could this be what she was looking for? But the more her fingers had shaped the outline of the item, the more convinced she grew that it was simply a hardback novel. A journal would have a more supple cover. She didn’t dare go into the bag though. There were some answers she wasn’t ready for yet.
Shivering, she plugged in the electric heater, in the corner of the room, and turned the nozzle as high as it would go. Removing her shoes, but keeping her socks on, she shuffled down under the crisp, lemon sheets, massaging her bad hip with one hand. The cold always made it ache more. It was 3 o’clock. The funeral wasn’t until tomorrow lunchtime. Twenty two hours. Only twenty two more hours to stay strong. She picked up a worn-looking crime paperback from the bedside cabinet, and was ...”
I would never use a well known phrase or cliche, because it shows a lack of imagination. What city or town is this scene set in?
Keep it up and good luck.
It has been said, there is a silver lining to every cloud. Try as she might, Gina could not find it. She sat beside the window, her eyes following shape-shifting wisps of fog forming outside her studio apartment. After leaving Alexis’s office, she returned to the morning’s street corner, hoping for a miraculous reappearance of her suitcase at the bus stop. But there was no sign of it anywhere. It had vanished along with the man in the hibiscus shirt, taking the depositions with it. Inside, she knew this nightmare would end somehow but until then; there would be no safety. Tomorrow, her boss was sure to learn the truth, and that would be the end of her dream. She needed to feel secure again… she needed a new job. Grabbing the Times from a newsstand, she pored over classifieds while on the bus ride home. Retail clerk… waitress… embalmer’s assistant… nothing. Not a single job in the legal field.
A low purr awoke her from reverie. “Come here Isis,” she reached on the ironing board and picked up her two year old Bengal; stroking it’s golden fur. Holding the cat before her, she looked at its hairy face. “You don’t have any worries, do you?” Isis blinked, opening her mouth in a large yawn. “You hungry? Want mum to fix lunch?” Pulling out a dish of leftover veggie patties from the refrigerator, Gina poured half of it into a kitty bowl. “Here you go, sweetie. Enjoy while it lasts.” Returning the remainder to the fridge, she unwrapped an egg roll for herself and was about to take a bite when she noticed the briefcase lying on the kitchen table beside the classifieds. She eyed it suspiciously. Whatever the thing was that she had seen upon opening the briefcase in Alexis’s office, Gina felt it meant trouble. But what was it really? Laying the egg roll on the newspaper, she opened the briefcase once again.
Xean
1/12/2011
Lyndsey, mistakes are nothing to be ashamed of. Without, we would never learn to correct them. Some consider me a good writer and as you can see in my extract above, I too make mistakes.
Thank you Tame. Ironing boards are a bit fragile. I agree, even if someone writes works in another language, they should write in their native one as well. You know Nepali? I know and write other languages and dialects, however English is what I was born with. Regarding the strange part, I’ve heard it before and I’ll likely hear it again. Are writers so terrified as to consider one of their own willing to exchange ideas with others and learn strange? Writing is basically an advanced form of communication. Communication is an exchange of ideas. We are writers. Our job is to communicate. Strange?
If anyone has more suggestions, I’d love to hear.
Below is a draft from the chapter as it currently is. There are many differences from the version above. Can anyone tell what those differences are and what they mean for perfecting composition?