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My very educated mother just served us nine pickles.

I’m guessing that you know what I’m talking about here–the nine planets. Like many of you, this ditty is chiseled in my long-term memory.

Education is full of such jingles and tricks—for good reason. According to brain research, we retain information best when we are able to link new concepts to prior knowledge. Skilled teachers and speakers utilize this linking process to activate curiosity and make learning relevant.

As writers, we must do the same. We use description to introduce specific “concepts”—a character, a plot device, or a setting. However, if the description does not evoke a mental connection for the reader, it’s a waste of ink.

As you write your descriptions, think about what you’re evoking. Then, think about what it may trigger in your reader.

Consider these example from Friday’s link-up.

1. Carrie’s use of color works on a few levels here. The light flickering surprises the reader, and the sickly yellow evokes images of infection, festering, and general malaise. I also love the flick of the coat, and the verb choice “observe.” It suggests that Lucus sees himself to be better than his companions.

Lucus chuckled low in his throat. He and his companion stopped a few feet away. A street light flickered to life, bathing them in a sickly shade of yellow. Lucus flicked the edge of his coat as he observed us.

2. I enjoyed this image from (Tina) Not Just Another Mother Blogger. Her word choices make the mundane new. We’ve all seen and felt the intensity of a painful cough. It is like collapsing in on oneself. This description is very relatable and yet, I never thought of it quite that way.

Coughing harshly, he seemed to collapse in on himself, his body disappearing as the shadows collected themselves around him.

3. Barbara evokes texture to show character. As I read this, I put my finger to my lips, and imagined the spiky roughness. And it made me think about Devon–his fears, his desperation, and his struggle in such a moment.

Devon ran his tongue over his chapped lip. No. He couldn’t mean to.

As you write your descriptive passages this week, ask yourself: What am I evoking? And will my reader remember it?

How do you write memorable description? Share in the comments!

Image courtesy of stock.xchng

Yesterday, Angela wrote,

“Short stories can end on an ambiguous note, loose ends dangling a bit in your reader’s mind.  But leaving loose ends doesn’t mean your story is a vignette, a still photograph; there should be a conflict and a choice.  That choice should lead to a consequence, though it doesn’t need to lead to a resolution.”

I adored Denise (of Racing Warrior)’s take on last week’s prompt. Using the three ingredients needed to build a scene—action, dialogue, and reaction—she set up an intriguing conflict between her two characters. She discussed choices and consequences, without tying it up in a neat bow. I will be back, seeking this story and these delightful characters.

An excerpt:

She waved me off. “He made me the sweetest cornhusk doll. I still have it. We had been spending time on each other’s porches for quite a few months. My parents were certain a wedding was in the stars. Then William Hardy showed up with. Now, if Ed was wholesome, sturdy and respectable then William was everything opposite. Will Hardy was – What do you call them these days? Ah, a player. A player who rounded up all the single girls in town leaving quite an impression. His charms did not evade me. He was caviar.”

“Caviar?”

“Absolutely. Ed Bailey was sweet corn. Ordinary and expected. But Will was caviar. Exotic and daring. Will told me I was champagne. We would go well together. I had to choose.”

“Let me guess. You chose ordinary,” I sarcastically stated.

“I chose caviar and champagne. Champagne and sweet corn just don’t mix.”

And now for this week’s prompt: In 400 words or less, write a story or memoir which relates to choices and/or consequences. Because of the word limits, you may choose to focus just on the choice, or just on the consequence. Remember to capture a moment using dialogue, action, and reaction.

We’ll see you at the link up on Friday!

Image courtesy of Curt Fleenor (via Flickr creative commons)

My computer has folders and folders of photographs: vacations, holidays, nights out with friends, adventures with the kids.

None of those pictures alone tell an entire story.

A stunning shot of the Trevi Fountain doesn’t reveal the tank top clinging to my sweat-drenched back under the scorching August sun.

A toddler dangling his feet into the water can’t speak of the long process of coaxing and prodding that finally got him near the water but couldn’t convince him to make the leap into the pool.

Choosing a short story for my latest project seemed like a logical step.  A prompt response introduced a character who set up an easy chair in my consciousness.  I knew what happened to her in a single moment, and I wanted to explore what she would do.

With a short story, I could focus on a single element of her long history with her husband and their daughter.

Short stories can end on an ambiguous note, loose ends dangling a bit in your reader’s mind.  But leaving loose ends doesn’t mean your story is a vignette, a still photograph; there should be a conflict and a choice.  That choice should lead to a consequence, though it doesn’t need to lead to a resolution.

The conflict and consequence were clear to me from the beginning, my character couldn’t make any other choice, and the consequence flowed organically from her back story.

And there was my challenge.

Short stories don’t require, or leave room for, a complete back story.  Character motivation needs to be sprinkled into the story through brief flashbacks, small details in inner monologues, and the reactions the characters have to each other in the present moment.

My main character’s history lived in my mind, some of it peppered with details about her first date with her husband and some of it more vague, snippets of emotions she experienced and absorbed over the years.

That history isn’t found in my story; there are two brief flashbacks, but the majority of my six thousand words happen within a period of about three hours.

I needed the help of fresh eyes to help me bring my character’s motivation to life, based on what I was showing in the story and the ability of the reader to extrapolate without making too many assumptions.

Novels present writers with an entire host of challenges, but the short story walks a tightrope between what is shown and what is added by the reader in a way that is making me agonize over every word on the stack of pages next to my laptop.

Still, as editing this project starts to come together, I find myself considering my next project.

And another short story might be lurking in my drafts folder.

How do you feel about short stories, either reading or writing?  How do you find them to differ from flash fiction?  Or novels?

Try to read as many as you can, or at least the one in front of and behind you.

Have a great weekend!

“Two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane.”

and a little flexibility for the memoirists: feel free to use a narrow lane, a moonlit night, or appearance of someone seemingly from nowhere as a jumping off point.

The word limit was 500 words. We all hope you had fun!

I wrote about the price of debts paid in Forfeit Debts.

Link up below, and before the weekend is out, please take some time to visit as many of your colleagues as you can. Especially those who can’t link up until later on!

And how many of you Googled the line?

When I finished the first draft of my manuscript, I was feeling pretty pumped. I mean, I wrote a book!

And then I had two trusted writer friends read it. Which was the reality check I needed. I knew my story had issues. My first chapter didn’t work. Certain scenes weren’t believable. I needed more characters, and the ones I had didn’t always behave the way they should.

I also needed to take a hard look at my plot.

Plot is the engine driving your story forward. But an engine is made up of lots of different parts, and if one breaks or is missing, the engine won’t run – and your plot won’t work, either. There were holes I could drive a Mack truck through, people.

Working in new characters and situations and connecting the dots in your plot is like throwing a stone in the water: the ripple effect will spread throughout the entire story. As I added new scenes and situations and people, I had to make sure I adjusted later parts of the story to match. If I decided my main character had to lose her legs, she better not be running a marathon in the next chapter. I can’t just drop a bomb in the middle of the book and not deal with the fallout.

The point of the additions – and, in some cases, subtractions (though everyone retains their limbs in my book) – is to enhance the story. To make it richer. To answer the question of “And then what happens?” Your main character needs to be in an almost constant state of conflict or else your readers will lose interest. Every character, scene, sentence needs to be purposeful.

When you edit, make sure there is a reason for everything. How do your subplots help steer the main plot? How do they affect your characters? Does everything match up? You don’t need to tie everything up neatly with a red bow, but you also don’t want to take your readers down twisty paths to nowhere.

How do you edit for plot? Is it difficult or easy for you to do? Do you use an outline?

It stumped me.

I don’t come up with them; they just are.

There was a movie, not so long ago, called Stranger Than Fiction. It starred Will Ferrell as the protagonist who discovers, to his horror, he’s actually a character in a novel.

In my mind, my characters are as real as Will Ferrell felt. Guilt assails me when I leave them alone too long. I think, “Poor Carrie really needs to escape that tornado. And I can’t forget about Ellie in Spain, Honey in New York, Todd God knows where, and Henry trying to man the farm stay while all hell breaks loose.”

Sometimes one voice is louder than the others. And sometimes, I have to drag someone from the depths kicking and screaming that he or she is just fine where I left him or her, thank you very much.

So if the characters appear fully formed, what about their story?

Now that’s a bit different.

For me, it all starts with a tiny spark. That spark usually begins as a “what if” and continues to “and then what?” With the general idea of a plot in place, you can start filling in the blanks, using each question as an opportunity to move the story forward.

Driving into work, windshield wipers swiping the rain as fast as it fell, my mind wandered from “I wish I could stay in bed with a good book” to “if only I could win the lottery” to “what if there was a magical dagger that granted whoever possessed it whatever they wished as long as they were willing to pay the price?”

And from there, Ruth formed – good, kind, smart, sassy. What would it take for her to be willing to sell her soul? A sick child, of course. And what would happen if it turned out her father had sold his soul for glory and Ruth was the price he must pay? A father sacrificing his child who refused to sacrifice her own.

Gives one goosebumps, doesn’t it?

Catching sight on the redness rising on his neck, Tess laid a hand on David’s arm. [...] David tensed, but he paused. Taking a deep breath, he removed her hand only to bring it to his lips and gently kiss it. Turning around, he led Tess away, without sparing Darla another glance. As they walked down the manicured path, Tess squeezed his hand. [...] David’s shoulders were rounded toward the ground. He didn’t say a word until the pair were back in his car, driving away. [...] His hands flexed on the steering wheel. [...] David cut himself off, shaking his head.[...] Tess turned her gaze to the window. [...] Silence. David pounded a fist on the wheel.[...] He pulled the car to the side of the road, turned off the ignition and looked at Tess. [...] He placed a hand on her stomach and the gentle rise just starting to show. [...] David smiled. [...] Tess placed hers over David’s, but she looked away. [...] David pursed his lips. [..] Without another word, he turned the key and pulled back onto the road.

The pair’s behavior and body language show the heart of the scene. We have rising tension, diffusion, shame, tenderness, anger, and confusion.

from the blog www.stuckincustoms.com

Whether dialogue heavy or rich in description, every scene should serve the story; whether it is from flash fiction, a short story, your memoir, or an epic serial novel, every scene must advance the narrative in some fashion. If it doesn’t, it’s not holding its weight in words. Consider that as you head into your writing this week.

And now the prompt:

For this week, I’m offering you this opening line:

“Two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane.”

If you are approaching this prompt from a memoir standpoint, feel free to use a narrow lane, a moonlit night, or appearance of someone seemingly from nowhere as a jumping off point.

You have 500 words. See you Friday, 12:00AM EDT.

The line above is the first line of a well-known novel. Did you recognize it without Googling?

image courtesy of Matt Hampel's Flickr stream (via Creative Commons)

I explored a character in Amber Glass and realized I wanted to use her struggle as a sub-plot in my current work in progress.  Weaving the daughter’s story into the main parental conflict in my story proved difficult, but I worked with the idea until it fit.

Letting go of a draft is terrifying and exhilarating.

It’s the first glimpse into a reader’s reaction.

Are my characters’ motivations apparent?  Are the characters relatable?  Does the conflict seem realistic?

Though I would love to send off my pages and have them returned in a lovely heart-shaped package wrapped in pink ribbon, my story will never become realized in its best form if I don’t turn it over to readers with critical eyes and sharp pens with lots of ink.

But knowing the importance of honest editors doesn’t always make accepting their constructive criticism easy.

Generally, I won’t ask for editing help until I feel my work is in a coherent state; hearing something doesn’t work can hurt a bit.  Defensive explanations creep into my comments, and I try not to sound like I’m whining.

With my latest project, I always had concerns with the scope of the story and the amount of material I was trying to contain within the constructs of the short story structure.

Throwing my words to the wind, or more aptly the inboxes of three willing readers, my worries were amplified and reflected in their responses.

My little sub-plot, one I agonized over and teased out and tried to work in meticulously, was adding unnecessary bulk to the main conflict in the story.

I wanted to keep it.

I wanted it to work.

But it ended up slashed by a turquoise pen.

I closed my eyes, let the idea languish in the second draft and worked on ways to fill some of the motivation issues I felt were left by the removal of the sub-plot.  I scribbled notes in my margins, strengthening and deepening a later conversation, moving the plot forward in a more literal and visceral way.

Last week you saw a marked-up copy of one of my hard copy editing pages, and I discussed the difficulties I have cutting words I love.

But editing is more than trimming words and twisting phrases into something more pleasing to the ear.  It can also involve major overhauls in a story.

Because if the story doesn’t work, whatever that story may be, even the most beautiful words won’t hold a reader’s attention.

Do you have trouble making changes to your plot once you’re in the midst of a “finished” first draft?  How do you decide whose opinions you’ll trust?

Try to read as many as you can, or at least the one in front of and behind you.

Have a great weekend!