To edit a line.

Warning to non-writers: If you get bored with nuts-and-bolts stuff, this one’s not for you.

My method of writing is not the usual draft-it-all-first approach. I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work for me. If I don’t get it the way I want it, early on, there’s no sense in continuing. Because what comes first influences what follows. I take my idea and start expanding it. While mentally (and sometimes on paper) exploring its potential, I begin to perfect it.

I do this with every line. One line builds from another, until there’s unity within the whole.

Here’s an example of the progression of a sentence in a work in progress, my middle grade* novel, Hans Andersen’s Ghost. The scene: Skim, a boy of twelve, is left standing in the dark on a hilltop far from home. One of the motifs in the story is shoes (he keeps a key in his left shoe).

I’ll start with the first version of the sentence. I would include the sentence before it, but this is the beginning of a new paragraph.

» There’s a rumble again; he feels it through the soles of his shoes. (I’m thinking: Hmm … “the soles of his shoes” —echoes of Paul Simon … a distraction, too sing-song for this moment.)


» There’s a rumble again; he feels it through his shoes. (Better, but it does not convey the immediacy of the feeling, because it’s telling us what he feels rather than sending us the feeling.)


» There’s a rumble again, rumbling right through his shoes. (Now we can feel what he feels. But I’ll try an even closer description.)


» There’s a rumble again, rumbling up through his shoes. (There. It gives a sense of the vibration and its direction, from the ground up. I considered reinserting “the soles of”—it sounds good, but that added detail might compete with the rumble.)

Now for the next line, to see how it fits.

    There’s a rumble again, rumbling up through his shoes. Louder it grows, and stronger, like a mammoth mole tunneling under his feet.

I like the alliteration of the uh sound (rumble, rumbling, up, tunneling, under)—it enhances the uh-oh—something's-about-to-happen sense I want to convey. But I have a problem with the prosody the word tunneling creates. It has too many syllables, making the sentence drag at the end. So I consider some synonyms and come up with a few possibilities: burrow, grub, and bore. Bore is a little odd and calls attention to itself (besides lacking the uh sound), and burrow/ing is no better than tunneling. So, grub it is. Grubbing—two syllables. And I like the scariness of it.

    There’s a rumble again, rumbling up through his shoes. Louder it grows, and stronger, like a mammoth mole grubbing under his feet.

But, being a finicky writer, I think it still drags. So, I do as they say: I'm killing that darling grub.

    There’s a rumble again, rumbling up through his shoes. Louder it grows, and stronger, like a mammoth mole under his feet.

I think that says it. It might be even scarier.


 *middle grade defines fiction specifically suited for readers ages 8-12

The Voices of Children

I’m well into my second middle grade novel, and as I write I sometimes think of the comments readers have made about my first book, The Dragon of Cripple Creek (Abrams).  I think about what touched them, worried them, drew them in. It stirs the 12 year old within me, who jumps up, saying, “Yes! Told you!”
 

When a group of sixth graders wanted to know how a man my age could have the mind of a 12 year old, that’s what I told them: The 12 year old still lives inside me. As does the 18 year old, and the 24 year old …

When asked how I could think like a girl (my novel is narrated by 12-year-old Katlin Graham), I answered more thoughtfully, carefully: I have three sisters; I’ve raised a daughter; I listen and observe. While I developed the story, I lived the life of Kat, I dreamed her dreams. It wasn’t much of a stretch to do so, because a lot of the issues children her age ponder and face are not gender specific.

But more significant still, is how the imagination works. No one asked me how I got into the mind of a millennia-old dragon, but he was real enough that my readers didn’t doubt his existence within the confines of the story. Even cried over him at the end.

We humans are gifted with the ability to empathize and identify with other living beings. This gift is given in varying degrees of course, and equally true, the personal expression of this gift is in varying degrees. It’s one of those essentials that determines whether relationships succeed or fail, or fall somewhere whimpering in between, which, sadly, is where many relationships seem to arrive.

The same is true for the writer-reader relationship. The writer must speak in a voice that echoes at least one of the myriad voices whispering in our hearts, or risk losing connection.

The Dragon of Cripple Creek is on the Accelerated Reader list, and I know three teachers who have added it to their curriculum. Anticipating one of my school visits, several students wrote me letters. I've selected some of their expressions, and follow them with related thoughts. 

“I find your novel incredibel because it reminds me of my life.”

“Dillon reminds me of myself because we’re both clever and creative.” 

We as writers hold up a mirror before our readers, in which they can see themselves, identify more clearly who they are and wish to be. We also hold up a window, through which they can see beyond themselves, understand others. 

“I love dragons, wish I could meet one.”

“I also am in love with dragons, so, connection.” 

Dreams. Wishes. As a child, I wished I could fly, believed it was possible, wondered what it would be like. I had seen Peter Pan on TV. I tried with my whole being to fly, leaping off the couch, feeling I could soar. When I didn’t succeed, it wasn’t that it was not possible, but that I hadn’t discovered the secret. Another desire was to become invisible. Conversely, but coming from the same simplicity of faith, I was anxious I’d meet a ghost, in my wanderings outside at night, or when the house was vacant. My current work in progress features a ghost, though I doubt he will create much anxiety. That comes from suspense, from threatening circumstances, from the precarious hope that all will be well in the end. 

“The book had me anxious the whole entire time.” 

That’s included in the writer’s intent: to keep the pages turning, the reader engaged, then to bring it all together in a satisfying resolve. But it's more than that: There's a reason we become anxious, and it's personal. Like quiet harmony, our own hopes and fears are involved. The final resolve may not be without sadness—usually it is not if it reflects any reality—but a feeling of completion. We should not disappoint. 

“I will tell you the truth I don’t like to read but this is the kind of book I like to read.”

“I really, really hate reading, But …. when I read this its like I don’t wanna stop.” 

These are some of the most rewarding expressions a writer can hear. To know you’ve touched someone. It’s one of the wonderful reasons we’re on earth: to give joy and receive it in return. When I see a young reader holding my book up and grinning, it’s a reminder to me of what matters most.

From a third grade teacher: 

I am slowing down my usual pace [of reading aloud] because the kids seem fascinated with Kat's thoughts (which makes me want to read more expressively). Today we even turned out the lights, and I read in the semi-darkness as Kat inched closer to the gold. Their expressions were most gratifying. We've completed an hour of read-aloud this week and haven't made it to Chapter 2. With third graders one must stop for their commentaries—you've provoked a few. One girl had to explain [for a passage that mentions the uvula] "that thing hanging down the back of your throat."

"Fascinated with Kat's thoughts." Why is that? Perhaps it's to see "thinking" at work, be mindful of critical thought, help them process their own. 

And a few are intrigued by writing itself, of communicating through story: 

“I also think you should stick with writing children’s books more.”

“It must take years of practice.” 

It does take years of practice, and I’m still practicing.
 

Value the voices of children, who can reveal to us what touches them, entertains them, excites them, how they see themselves and others in their own context, as they relate to the worlds we’ve made.

The Convenience Store Imp An H C Andersen tale newly told by Troy Howell

     ----------------------------   -                                N the top floor of a convenience store, 
right under the roof, lived a college student who loved literature. He tended to read more than eat. On the bottom floor lived the grocer, who tended his store. Somewhere in between lived an imp, who tended to eat more than anything, and loved sweets in particular. Candy, cakes, cookies—it didn’t matter, as long as it was sweet. He would steal into the store at night and snack himself silly. • So the imp approved of the grocer. • One evening, the student came down the stairs to buy light bulbs and cheese, and the imp was watching. The student greeted the grocer’s wife, who switched from gabbing to gawking, for she had the gifts of both gab and gawk. As the grocer was wrapping the cheese, the student noticed the wrapper was not a wrapper at all, but a page from a poetry book. • “What a shame!” he said. “This page should not have been torn!” • “Here’s more,” said the grocer, producing a battered book. “It’s perfect for wrapping cheese.” • “Sir!” said the student. “You’re a good grocer, but you know less about poetry than that recycle bin!” • The grocer laughed it off. “You can have the book for a price.” • “Give me the book for the cheese, then. I’d rather feed the soul than the stomach.” • The exchange was made, the student returned to his loft, and under the stairs the imp stamped. Who does the student think he is? To insult the grocer and snub the recycle bin! • That night when the household slept, the imp crept out. He borrowed the tongue of the grocer’s wife, who snored with her mouth open wide and had no need of it then. The imp placed the tongue on the recycle bin, asking, “Do you know poetry?” • “Know poetry!” cried the tongue. “Huh! It’s the blurb they stick at the end of a page to fill in the blanks! Blah, blah, blah! That’s what it is! I’ve got more in me than that arrogant kid!” • “Just as I thought,” said the imp. • He put the tongue on the coffee grinder and it chattered nonstop. He put it on the cash register and the dairy case, and each one repeated what the recycle bin had said. The word was unanimous: Poetry filled in the blanks. • “Ha!” muttered the imp. “I’ll show that sorry student!” And he rushed up the stairs. • Light was shining from under the student’s door. The imp peered through the keyhole and— Glory! The room was luminous! There sat the student, bent over the book, and from its pages grew a wonderful tree, full of sunrays and spirits who sang enchanting songs. The imp could hardly believe his eyes, could hardly believe his ears. Never had he seen such a sight, never had he heard such singing! • He stood on tiptoe until his limbs went numb, far into the night, until the student closed the book and climbed into bed. • The light was out, but the vision glowed in the imp’s mind. He approved of the student now. “I never would have imagined!” he whispered. “This is the place for me! I must move into the loft!” • He crept back down the stairs, wondering how to do it. But then his stomach growled, and his sweet tooth ached, and he knew it couldn’t be. The student had little food, and nothing sweet at all. • He returned just in time to save the tongue from wagging itself limp, for it was back on the recycle bin, babbling the news backward. And from that time on, all the merchandise had the same opinions as the bin. • But from that time on, the imp got no pleasure from gossip. Whenever the light shone from under the student’s door, he’d peer into the keyhole, amazed. At times he would cry and would not know why. He would smile, he would sigh. He felt as if a mighty sea rolled before him, basking in sunlight, shifting under clouds. It warmed him and comforted him; it made him feel both strong and small. • Winter came, and still he would peer, though the wind in the stairs shook his bones. When he could stand the cold no longer, back down he would go, shivering but happy. • Christmas came and there were plenty of sweet things to eat, so the imp liked the grocer again. • But on New Year’s Eve he woke in a heat. What commotion there was outside! Shouts and sirens and smoke! Fire! A building was burning! Whose was it? Theirs? He couldn’t tell for sure. • But one thing was sure: Each person would save what each treasured the most. The grocer leaped out of bed and grabbed his accounts. The grocer’s wife took off her earrings and plunged them into her gown. The imp darted upstairs and into the loft, where the student stood calmly at the window, gazing at the fire next door. • The imp found the book of poems, snatched it away, and climbed onto the roof. There he sat, sheltering this marvelous work. • Now he knew what he treasured the most. • The firemen came, the flames were put out, and still he gripped the book. • But then his stomach began to churn, and his sweet tooth began to yearn. Sugar! Sugar! He hung his head, got down from his perch, returned the book, and slumped down the stairs. • He favored the grocer after all.

art & text © 2012 by Troy Howell

The Starving Artist

GRILLED CHEESE EXPRESSIONISM

Just the right lunch for fall weather.

I use a cast iron skillet over medium heat with a tab of butter (olive oil should work as well), lightly buttered multi-grain bread, white cheese—usually jack, though Gouda is good, and when in the mood I’ve used sharp cheddar—with thinly sliced onions browning alongside the sandwich. Once the cheese has melted and the bread has grilled, I add the onions and—here’s the expressive part—slices of avocado and a coil of mustard.

Ah, avocados. I grew up in a home with an avocado tree outside my second-story window, which provided an instant exit when I didn’t care to use the stairs. One summer I left the window open for the tree to branch out inside. It played with the idea, but must have felt claustrophobic, and declined. We had avocados throughout the year. If you're unfamiliar with choosing and using them, keep in mind that ridges running beneath the skin are signs there are undesirable strings in the flesh. The fruit should give slightly under pressure when ripe—anything softer, or hollow places, and it's probably overripe. An avocado will ripen sooner if the stem remainder is removed. Always store at room temperature; don't refrigerate before it is ripe. Use a butter knife to cut the avocado lengthwise in half, then stab the seed to remove it.

To complete the meal, I serve tomato soup (Trader Joe’s Organic Tomato and Roasted Red Pepper, to be specific) with a slice or two of avocado afloat, and a liberal sprinkling of freshly ground pepper. The buttery avocado complements the tangy tomato, and the color combination is pleasing. 

artwork is acrylic on rag board

Hey, kids!

TRY THIS AT HOME! It really works! Fool your friends! Send secret messages! Got something to say, but want to keep it private? Forget texting, and go invisible ink! That’s right—or should we say, that’s write—you know, the stuff that flows out of a pen? Only you can’t see it: it vanishes before your eyes! Shhhh … don’t tell anyone, but once you know the trick, you can see it! (We’ll get to that part in a minute.) First, you make the ink yourself, by following an ancient, home recipe, passed down from kid to kid to kid, from goodness knows how long ago. You can do this in your own kitchen, using a few common ingredients—just don’t get caught! Ready? Here’s what you do. T-ke a—e on a-d - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"A book in hand is worth two on the shelf." 

pu-n,c!tu?a—t“i”on ... [p;an/d(e)mon'i:um].

What a morning!

Exclamation Mark barges into my office, red-faced and hyper, and starts stomping everything in sight! I tell it to go back where it came from, that I have little use for hysterics, and to not return, either alone or accompanied (particularly accompanied!!) unless summoned. Know what it does? Crashes my computer and jumps from the window! Just as Question Mark peers inside, puzzled. “What the—!?” asks Q. “This isn’t the chiropractor?” “That would be two doors down,” I say. “And if I were you, I’d keep away from Ex.” “Ex?” “Yeah, a minute ago—”

Em Dash dashes in (naturally), interrupting, and declares it’s through with people mistaking it for its un-better half—Hyphen. Speaking of which, in pops Hyphen (followed quietly by En Dash), self-important, saying that this nine-to-five thing is not sufficient for all the work it must do, and that, according to its owner’s manual, specifically pages 34–36 (“Hey,” says En, in a credit-where-credit’s-due sort of way, “that’s me.”) it has the widest range of usage in the entire grammar group, hence, has value, compounds things, connects well, maintains relationships ...

Ah, here we have Ellipsis, pogo-sticking in and leaving a dot-to-dot on the floor ... pogo-sticking out again ... and until I connect the dots, I won’t know quite what's going on.

And heeeere’s Apostrophe, drifting in to settle between an empty bottle from last night’s party and a lone gold cuff link. Right on its tail come two weeks’ worth of Apostrophes, murmuring, “Don’t mind us—‘twas neither a sin of omission nor commission on your part. We’re just doin’ our duty, tidyin' things up.”

“Take care of the broken glass,” I say.

“Will do.”

I’m hearing voices, and Quotation Marks flutter into the place, humming, buzzing, droning; one pair is singing The Coasters’ hit, “Yakety Yak.” I identify two types: couples and singles. Now and then they rake the air with their “fingers.” One pair joins up with a single, and together they announce, “Comma’s coming! ‘In the room the Comma comes and goes, talking of—‘”

Comma indeed trips in, singing—not the “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”—but Bob Marley. Comma pauses, then with a nod of its head, leaves a breakfast croissant on my desk, smiles, exits, comes back, frowns, removes the croissant, pauses once more, says, “Shucks, I’ve got plenty,” puts it back, and exits. (It will return. Again, and again, and again.)

Parentheses slides through the door (both of them, and I do a double-take: They’re identical twins) and assumes a position on either side of the room, saying in stereo, “Don’t mind us—we’re grammatical sociopaths. And one of us,” they continue, “(though we won’t say who), is half a smiley face.”

I smile. But my amusement is short-lived: Colon has arrived, slogging stiffly by, going straight for my file cabinet, rummaging around. I pull a bottle from the bottom drawer of my desk, and say, “Is this what you’re after?” Colon stares: It’s my emergency milk of magnesia. “Give me till 12:30,” Colon declares, “and I’ll be good to go.” I knew it: That explains all things Colon; it even explains Semicolon, now limping across my carpet, listing to one side like some worried serial comma, which it can be at times; it could be Comma’s cousin. ("[I'm] not so sure about that," says Semicolon.")

Brackets—two of them—marching in with postures so straight I could balance Merriam-Websters on their flattops. “You’re so square,” I say, but I don’t think they get it. Or maybe they do, but they're not laughing. I think I’ll put them right there [emphasis mine], where I had set aside my old office chair/bookshelf/catch-all.

The Slash. It strikes suddenly. Everything is B/W with The Slash, either/or, no gray areas. But not to give it short shrift, The Slash’s use is not so terse / when parting running lines of verse. The Slash leaves as abruptly as it came.

And last but not least, Period struts in, puffing a Punch Double Corona and speaking one-liners, like, “So,” “Now,” “Enough.” Taking a hard look at the sentence I’m writing (with pen and paper, since Ex Mark crashed my computer), it asks me if there’s anything more, do I think it’s run its course, and whether it should be brought to a final point, so I say, “I’m done,” and Period snuffs out its cigar on the end of it.