Sunday, October 14, 2012

BreNaTaMo

No, I haven't developed a new language. I've been inspired by National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) to come up with my own theme for November:  Brea Nap Taking Month (BreNaTaMo). I'm not expecting it to catch on like NaNoWriMo has, but that's okay. The concept is simple:  I vow to take a nap every single day in the month of November.

I know... that's a huge commitment to sleep, but I think I'm up to the challenge. As a matter of fact, I've been training for this my whole life. I like sleep almost as much as I love writing. Plus, isn't napping mostly a matter of forcing oneself to lie down on the couch, bed, or in the car? Body in bed. No excuses. There will be no, "But I have to pick up the kids from school," or "Dinner's not going to make itself." What are my priorities? In November, those priorities will be sleep first, everything else after that. BreNaTaMo is important!!! It will be up to me to balance out the sleep continuum; I'll be keeping the universe in balance by getting the z's those NaNoWriMo writers will be eschewing in the pursuit of their goal to put 50,000 words together in some semblance of a rough first draft of a novel in the month of November. It's a lofty goal. I'll be cheering them on.

Does that mean I won't be writing in November? No way. That'd be like asking me to stop breathing. I'll still be writing as much as I do every month. I fully intend to finish my latest work-in-progress in November so I can edit and revise in December and publish in time for Christmas.

So, while I'm not formally participating in NaNoWriMo I will be wholeheartedly participating in BreNaTaMo. Wish me luck! And if you know a writer who's taking part in NaNoWriMo, please wish them luck, too.

www.breabrown.com

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Who's Telling this Story?

I have to get something off my chest. It's a first-world problem to be sure, but it affects a major part of MY world, so I need to vent.

Let me set the scene... It's my lunch break. I just finished a book the night before, so I'm looking through the long backlog of titles on my Kindle to decide which one to read next. I settle on one with a cute title and a clever premise, sit back, and prepare to escape to another place.

The book is written in third person from the point of view of a woman who's just lost her job and has also just found out from her boyfriend that he's been cheating on her. She's devastated by this news, obviously. She's nauseated. She's stunned. I'm feeling really bad for her. Oh, what a horrible day! I'm feeling her pain. And then suddenly, without warning, I'm thrust into the head of the unfaithful boyfriend, who's despairing about his soon-to-be-ex-girlfiend's reaction to his confession. I think, "Whoa! Either this protagonist is a mind reader or the author forgot who was telling this story."

Reading on, it's obvious it's the latter. And after another chapter, it's obvious that it's going to continue happening throughout the book. That's a deal breaker, kids. The book, which I was just moments ago very excited to read, goes into the "reject" folder on my Kindle.

Disappointed, I nevertheless choose another, only to be faced with another book with an identity crisis. REJECT.

What is happening? If these were the first two books I'd recently encountered with this problem, I'd chalk it up to an unfortunate coincidence and go on my way, but it's, sadly, a common occurrence in contemporary fiction. An epidemic. I see it all the time. And as a reader, I'm fed up with being made to feel schizophrenic by writers who don't have a basic understanding of the fundamental concept of point of view. Who's telling the story? 

In To Kill a Mockingbird, it's Scout, the young girl learning some hard life lessons pertaining to human nature. Does that mean we never know what Scout's father, Atticus Finch, is thinking or feeling? Of course not. In many instances, we know by what he says and does. But we never hear his thoughts directly. We see everything through the filter that is Scout. If Scout doesn't see it, hear it, taste it, or feel it, then neither do we.

In The Devil Wears Prada, it's Andrea Sachs, the terrorized junior assistant to a high-maintenance  magazine editor. Is the despot in the designer label voiceless? No! But the only character we know as if we are in her head is Andrea. She is the lens. We never find ourselves sensing that the evil magazine editor is hungry... unless she comes out and says, "I'm hungry," or Andrea hears her stomach growl. Because the story is written from Andrea's point of view.

In other books, the person telling the story may vary per scene or chapter or section. For example, in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, sometimes beleaguered publisher-turned-investigator, Mikael Blomkvist, is the character leading us through the story. Other times it's the title character, Lisbeth Salander, who is our guide. But never both at the same time. We don't have Lisbeth's point of view in one paragraph and Mikael's in the next.


It's just like life. Unless you're a mind reader, you can't hear what your boss is thinking when you arrive late to work for the third day in a row. You may have a good idea based on the scowl on her face. Or you may know more definitely when she says, "Your tardiness is becoming a problem." But there's a big difference between those two things and experiencing what she feels in connection with your lateness. You can't feel her frustration, anger, or disgust. Your personal point of view doesn't allow for that, just as it wouldn't if you were the protagonist in a book facing her boss in a similar situation.
Decide who's telling the story--or that particular part of the story--and stick with it. Put the camera in that character's hands, and don't let him or her hand it off to any other characters.

Below are the top five reasons writers need to get a handle on this elementary concept:
  1. It's bad manners to make the reader invade the privacy of more than one character at a time. Okay, it's not. But worse than that, it's bad writing.
  2. It's psychologically uncomfortable. Some people may not understand why reading your story makes them irritable and in the mood to kick puppies, but I do. It's because you're constantly yanking the reader out of the story by switching from character to character every other sentence or paragraph. If we wanted to watch a tennis match, we'd tune into ESPN.
  3. You're robbing readers of their expectation of discovery. As a matter of fact, there's nothing to discover. You're telling us everything! Please, don't insult our intelligence. We can deduce what secondary characters are thinking and feeling, as long as you write well and let us know through exposition and dialogue. We don't need to have it spelled out for us by ping-ponging around in every character's head.
  4. It's exhausting and overwhelming to know every character's thoughts and feelings at once. One character's insight at a time, please.
  5. It's frustrating to constantly wonder, "Who's thinking this?" or ask "Wasn't I just experiencing this from the woman's point of view? Why am I suddenly privy to the man's thoughts and feelings?"
Writers. It's not enough to have a great idea for a story. You have to know how to properly execute the storytelling through the written word. That's what makes you a WRITER. That means you need to have a firm grasp of spelling, grammar, mechanics, and most importantly POINT OF VIEW. Yes, you do. Don't shake your head at me and say, "Oh, an editor will take care of that." Puh-lease. You obviously don't have one if your book is making it to the marketplace with such obvious problems.

Have mercy on the mental well being of readers everywhere and get a grip!

I'm the crazy girl sitting in her car on her lunch break, beating her Kindle against the steering wheel. Just kidding. I would never mistreat my beloved Kindle. I'm also the author of six books available exclusively on Amazon. You can find links to their pages and my Twitter feed and Facebook page on my website, www.breabrown.com. My seventh book, which I am currently writing, had better be point-of-view error-free after this self-indulgent rant. I am fully aware of that.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Taking Risks

I'm not a risk-taker. The most spontaneous thing I do on any given day is to decide what to eat for lunch... at lunchtime, with no prior planning. The second most spontaneous thing I do each day is decide whether to drink my coffee black or with a little half-and-half. I'm not kidding. That's how much I like flying by the seat of my pants.

So I should have known that taking a risk with my writing had the potential to meet with undesirable results.

Plain Jayne is a modern-day adaptation of Jane Eyre that I wrote on a whim. A months-long whim, granted, but a whim nonetheless. And along with some really positive reviews, it's also bringing me some of the nastiest, most negative reviews my work has ever received.

But I'm not here to whine about bad reviews. Really. Honestly. I want to talk about learning to take risks, despite the very real possibility of bad--or in this case--mixed results. A risk doesn't have to be a complete success to be successful.

I'm grateful to Plain Jayne. It's a departure from the norm that has--for the most part--paid off. For one, it jerked me out of my comfort zone. It's important to do that every once in a while. Wouldn't want to get too comfortable, right? Comfort is for sissies!

In addition, Plain Jayne has brought two new, very special people into my life. Real people, not imaginary ones (although I do love Jayne and Lucas). I like making new friends, especially these two. They've greatly enriched my life, and I have Plain Jayne to thank for it.

Less overtly positive, it has taught me that not everything is going to be an unmitigated success. Oh, I've already learned that lesson in all the other facets of my life, but my writing has been something that hasn't faced overwhelming rejection and disapproval. It was time to get a healthy dose of it.

Enter Plain Jayne.

"I wanted to tear my eyes out."
"Disappointing."
"Agonizingly slow."
"Too slow."
"Seemed to drag a bit."

Hmmm... I think I see a pattern here.

Now for a sampling of some of the POSITIVE things people not related to me have said in public forums about Plain Jayne (we don't want Jayne to get a complex, after all).

"Well-delivered!"
"Funny, entertaining book."
"A fresh read."
"REALLY good. And funny--so funny!"
"I didn't want it to end."
"I didn't want to put it down."
"Yet another well-written, engaging book."

And interestingly enough:
"Great with Tuscan Whole Milk."

Okay, then. I'll take it.

And you know what else I'll take? I'll take the criticism. I'll take ownership of Plain Jayne. I'm proud of it. I like it. I like the characters. I like the story. And I liked writing it (except for the times that I hated writing it). It actually felt good to do something different and challenge myself.

Plus, as the contradicting comments above clearly show, what one person hates is what another person loves (with milk, apparently).

So, whether it's with writing or any other part of your life that you're passionate about, learn to take some risks. Even if you stumble or fall down while doing it, no failure is a complete failure. It's not going to kill you. (Unless it's skydiving or cliffdiving or some other physically dangerous pursuit. In those cases, you may want to take fewer risks.)


If you'd like to see what camp you'd fall into ("Boo!" "Yay!" or "Great with Tuscan Whole Milk"), check out Plain Jayne and all my other books at www.breabrown.com. And, please, feel free to give an HONEST review. My skin is thickening, and my pillow is very absorbent.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

The Jury's Out

Much to the delight of my husband, who's been called several times, my number recently came up for Greene County jury duty. At first, I was chagrined, but the more I thought about it, the more I was looking forward to the experience. First off, it would get me away from the office for a day or two (or twenty); second, it's my civic duty, and I'm all about duty; third, it would be great experience and fodder for future fiction. Win, win, win.

I was particularly excited to run into some "characters." I live in the Ozarks, after all. We're overrun with characters. And the people I met at court would be great in an upcoming book of mine. Not any book in particular, mind you, but some book someday in the future.

My biggest concern about jury duty was forgetting to go. I've been plagued with nightmares of inadvertently dodging my responsibility since I accepted the summons weeks ago. The summons told me I needed to call the day before my scheduled service to see if the court still needed my group (Group 7). I've been telling myself for two weeks, "Can't forget to call. Can't forget to call." Sometimes, in the middle of the day, my stomach would drop, and I'd think, "What's the date? Did I forget to call? Did I miss my date?" A normal person would set an alarm on her cell phone and be done with it, but... who has two thumbs and isn't normal? This girl! I'd rather experience daily heart-stopping moments of terror and dread for weeks. Yes, that's much better.

Friday at work, I made the sort of arrangements normally reserved for vacation time away from the office, fully prepared to be gone for an unknown amount of time. It was sort of exciting! Okay, this is when I determined that my life is reaching an extreme level of lameness. But I've lived through some exciting times, and I have to say, I much prefer the type of boring existence I currently lead. I'm content with having the prospect of jury duty thrill me, because that means life is pleasantly dull, and nothing horribly stressful is going on.

All day yesterday, I repeated my "Don't forget to call" mantra. I had a dream last night about being arrested at work for shirking my duty after forgetting to go. And I've spent a lot of today looking at the clock, waiting until the magic hour of 5:00, when it was time for me to call and listen to the recorded message regarding group assignments.

Five o'clock arrived. I waited until 5:36 (because I'm cool like that). Then, with summons slip in hand, I dialed the first number listed. The man in the recording informed me that Groups 1-3 were to report on Tuesday, rather than Monday. Then, "Groups 4 through 14 are dismissed. Your service is no longer required."

What?! After all that, Group 7 is simply dismissed without ever reporting? Really? But I'm willing! And I really wanted the experience! And I've been fretting about this for weeks. Now, I'm dismissed? How anti-climactic! Someone really needs to instruct the Greene County Court in the ways of story arc.

Ah, well. I guess I'll have to be content with dealing with the usual characters tomorrow at work. Ho. Hum.

I live in Springfield, Missouri, and work with a bunch of engineers and geologists forty hours a week. Is it any wonder I was excited by the opportunity to serve on a jury? My fictional characters' lives are a lot more thrilling than my real life. Check it out for yourself. Links to my books' Amazon pages are on my webpage, www.breabrown.com. You can also find links to my email, my Twitter feed, my Facebook account, and this blog from there. Don't be shy; drop me a note!

Monday, August 27, 2012

Sneak Peek of QUIET, PLEASE!

Only the very final touches remain before publication of my latest book, Quiet, Please! I'm very excited about this, because it's something I've been writing off-and-on for a while, between other projects. Frankly, I thought it was going to be one of my "drawer books;" that is, shoved in a drawer (electronic, in this case), never to be seen by the public. It was very rough after its first draft, but it's matured over the months into something that I think is fun and that readers will enjoy. It's quite different from the original idea I had, which seems to happen a lot with my books, leading me to believe that I may be fickle. I guess there are worse things to be.

Is Quiet, Please! going to inspire people to solve the world's problems? Probably not. Will it help someone forget his or her real problems for a while? Maybe. Will it make people laugh? I hope so, since that's kind of the point.

Anyway, without further ado, here's Chapter One. I promise I won't make you wait much longer to read the rest. Enjoy!

Chapter One
     What am I doing here?
     Not literally. I know that. I’m labeling, cataloging, and shelving books, activities that are almost as natural to me as breathing. What’s unnatural is everything else about this situation.
     I’m in a bright, airy library that’s painted in vibrant colors with cheerful murals depicting children who are reading (and looking unnaturally happy about it, in my opinion). But that’s not the strangest thing about what’s going on. The strangest thing is that I, a professional, highly educated librarian—a librarian for adults, I might add—am in charge of this place. What’s most alarming, though, is that in a week, this place will be flooded with kids. “Strange,” I can handle. Kids… I don’t handle them as well.
     I’d better figure it out, though. And quick.
     Anyway, I’m up to the challenge. Aside from the fact that I don’t have a choice, I can do this. Maybe. I mean, they’re only kids, right? It’s not like they’re going to know that I’m terrified of them. Huh-huh. Or that I’m not at all confident in my ability to do this job. Huh-huh-huh. To them, I’m merely another—gulp—teacher. As long as I look the part and act the part, they won’t know that I’m a bundle of nerves inside.
     I obviously fooled the school’s principal, Renalda Twomey. That, or she made a bad decision after being twenty minutes late for my interview and hardly paying any attention to my answers. I didn’t fool her harried secretary, that much I know. I could tell by the wide-eyed, panicked look on her face when Ms. Twomey interrupted me halfway through my answer to her third question—which was technically more about whether I liked her purse than about the job opening—to say that I was hired.
     As an explanation for her sudden decision, she added, “I like you, Kendall; you’ve got spunk! And you’re just cute as can be! Those kids are gonna eat you up!” in her heavy North Carolina accent.
     I tried to take that as a compliment and block out all mental images of the children picking my bones clean on the first day and leaving them on the floor in front of the shelf that holds the Berenstain Bears books.
     The secretary, who had introduced herself to me as Sam Kingsley while I waited for Ms. Twomey to arrive, interjected, “Okay, but… Ms. Dickinson, how does your previous experience in…” she consulted my resume, “…the Kansas City Public Library system relate to or prepare you for a job in a public school setting?”
     Her mention of my former employer immediately made me break into a cold sweat. Vaguely, I answered with a bright smile and wide eyes, “Oh! I dealt with kids all the time at my old job.” And co-workers who behaved like them.
     “Did you work in the children’s section?” she persisted, her voice pleasant but her eyes informing me she wasn’t going to let me get away with that lame answer.
     I gulped and admitted, “No, not specifically. I filled in often, though. And…” Here, I had to fight my natural instinct to be completely and brutally honest about myself. “…I love kids. Love them! They’re so… cute and… young.”
     Ms. Twomey saved me then. “Oh, Sam, stop givin’ the poor girl the third degree! Whitehall Elementary needs a librarian… and fast.” Turning to me, she confided, “Our current one is retirin’. And she was super-experienced, but… we need someone younger, I think. That’s what I’ve been sayin’, anyway. But all the other applicants are… well, old! And I don’t want to have to hire another librarian in another coupla years, when one of those old people retires.”
     I pretended like it wasn’t at all ironic that a person who’s not a day younger than sixty would call anyone else who’s still active in the workforce “old.” Nor did I point out that it’s illegal for her to discriminate based on age. Instead, I saw my salvation in this disorganized, seemingly clueless mess of a person and nodded enthusiastically.
     Pouring on the Southern accent a little thicker than mine really is, I enthused, “Exactly! And let me tell you, I’m here to stay. Came here to be closer to my parents, so I’m not going anywhere.”
     Ms. Twomey grinned at Sam as if to say, “See?” and directed warmly at me, “Well, anyone with such good family values is a winner in my book. We’ll see you back here on the first Monday in August. That’s when teachers are supposed to come in to get their rooms ready and stuff.”
     After that declaration, she rose from behind her desk and grabbed her purse from the floor, where she’d dropped it when she rushed in, profusely apologizing for being late and muttering something about slow service at the hair salon.
     “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to a meetin’,” she announced.
     Sam very obviously rolled her eyes and asked, “How long will you be gone?”
     Waving off the question, the principal stayed focused on digging for something in her purse. Coming up with a lipstick, she replied while applying it, “M-dunnoOne, two hours?” She replaced the lid on the tube and said, “Don’t wait up for me, Mom.” Then she smiled naughtily at both of us and swept from the room, leaving behind the cloying smell of Aqua Net and Red Door perfume.
     Sam stood and leveled a chagrined look at me. “Sorry about that. If I don’t ask at least one legitimate question in these interviews, it doesn’t get done.”
     I smiled brightly at her. I didn’t care. I had a job! And I didn’t have to go into any detail about why I had to leave my other job. Generously, I said, “Don’t sweat it. I kind of noticed she has an… unconventional management style.”
     Bluntly, Sam corrected, “She’s an incompetent buffoon. And she drives me crazy. I’m counting down the days to her retirement.”
     “When’s that?” I inquired, trying not to laugh.
     “Probably never. Because God hates me. Come on, let’s go back to my desk and get the employment forms you need to fill out. I’ve got some of them here, but you’ll have to go to the district main office to do the rest.”
     Since that day, she’s been really nice to me, showing me around the school and introducing me to the other teachers (the ones who are here already). But I’m not letting her get too close. I mean, standoffish isn’t in my nature. But I haven’t accepted any of her offers to go to lunch or grab drinks after work. Work friends are overrated. I want to have a life outside of work this time around. I have no idea how I’m going to do that, but I’m sure I can think of something to do with my spare time that doesn’t involve hanging out with the same people I see all week at work or playing Skip-Bo with my parents in the evenings.
*****
     Fortunately, I have some experience with this reinvention thing. And this time around, it won’t even be as difficult as it was nine years ago.
     We moved from Colorado to this tiny town before my junior year in high school. The move was a godsend. Suddenly, I was the exotic newcomer from “out west.” This preconception made it fairly easy for me to lay the groundwork for going from geek to chic. In Colorado, I couldn’t buy friends, but nobody in North Carolina knew that. And if ever I made a misstep in my transformation, all I had to say was, “Oh, well, that’s how everyone does it/says it/thinks in Colorado," and it suddenly became a trend. It. Was. Awesome.
     But it only lasted for two years. Hardly anyone, including myself, stays in this town after high school graduation. It’s basically an outpost for professionals who work in Charlotte but want to live and raise their families in a smaller community. I stuck around a little longer than my classmates, because I went to college at UNC-Charlotte, where my parents are professors. But as soon as I had that university diploma in hand, I tried to find the farthest-flung job openings in libraries across the country. I wanted to be a grownup. I wanted to prove my independence. Biggest mistake of my life.
     Since returning from Kansas City with my tail between my legs, I haven’t run into any of my former classmates from high school (thank goodness), and I haven’t actively sought out anyone, either. Friends weren’t my motivation for coming back. What brought me back here was family. My parents, more specifically. I needed to reset with a safety net under me. I moved into my own place with the knowledge that if I couldn’t find a job, they’d open their house to me in a heartbeat, just like they did more than twenty-five years ago.
     This job has saved me from the ultimate defeat—moving back in with my parents—but I need to remember some old tricks if I want it to be a permanent solution. And I do. I’m sure the terror level will lessen with each passing day. Right?
     Anyway, I don’t have to change everything about myself this time around. No, I merely need to do a bit of research and observation and figure out what this whole “teacher” thing is about. Maybe I’ll watch some classic movies about the sort of teachers who inspire, like in Dangerous Minds. Yeah… I’ll be bad-ass, leather-sportin’ Michelle Pfeiffer. Or maybe not. I guess elementary students here in the sticks don’t need that sort of direction. Perhaps I should consider channeling “Jess,” from New Girl. People are constantly telling me that I remind them of Zooey, so why wouldn’t I be a teacher like her character on the show? Ooh! Maybe I’ll meet a hot, rich, single father who looks like Dermott Mulroney and date him for a while, too. Yes… I like this plan…
     During my daydreaming, I’ve somehow managed to put away all the books that arrived this morning. I collapse the box they came in and carry it behind the counter, where I’ll store it until I have a chance to take it out to the recyclables dumpster later. Then I pull out my weekly schedule and study it, as if I don’t already have it memorized.
     What’s most daunting to me is that while the rest of the teachers each have 25 to 30 students in their rooms each day, 100 to 120 students will come through the library on any given day. I’ll have to learn all their names and pretend that I like them. I think the latter part of that challenge is the harder half.
     I wish I liked kids. And maybe I will when this is all over, if these kids are nice enough not to make me hate kids even more. Not that I hate them. I don’t. That word conveys too strong an emotion about them. I’m almost totally indifferent to them. I don’t ooh and aah over babies or the cute, funny things that older children say or do. Most of the time, I don’t give any person under the age of 21 any thought at all.
     Maybe it’s because I don’t remember what it feels like to be a kid, so I have no empathy for them. It seems like I’ve been a grownup forever. As a child, I was precocious, and as I grew up, I was always mature for my age. Being an only adopted child, my parents took me everywhere and included me in everything they did until I was old enough to stay home alone. Since they’re academics, I was privy to dinner table conversations that ran the gamut from the weather to the political climate in third world countries. I learned early on how to hold my own in these conversations, but I was lost when it came to playground debates about Barbie versus Brattz. The point is, I met political activist and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel at one of my parents’ dinner parties when I was eight and had more to say to him than I did to any of my classmates in the lunchroom on a daily basis. That meant I had to actually study pop culture like another school subject to avoid being a complete outcast.
     So, I flourished in college. By about the third week of the fall semester my freshman year, when all the lightweights had dropped out and those of us who were serious about learning were left, I knew I was in my element. This was an atmosphere that encouraged intellectual debate and exploration. Sure, there were the fraternities and sororities that seemed more interested in partying, but there were as many of us—if not more—who cared about academics. I was no longer a minority. I didn’t have to waste time boning up on reality TV stats.
     Naturally, I chose one of the most notoriously nerdy majors:  library science. Technology was making it more interesting than ever, and I couldn’t think of any other career I’d rather pursue. The idea of being surrounded by books all the time for the rest of my life was thrilling. I’d never run out of knowledge to soak up, and I’d be ensuring that same knowledge was accessible to the masses.
     It wasn’t until I got my first real grownup post-graduate job in the Kansas City Public Library system that I found someone with like interests who also made me feel that spark of attraction.
     But anyway… with less than a week to go before school starts, I’m way too busy to think about him.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Lights, Camera, Action... (Or Not)

Obvious statement of the day: I'm slightly behind the curve when it comes to literary marketing tools. That's also the understatement of the day (I love multitasking). So, I'm sure book trailers aren't new devices in the ever-growing and -changing literary world, but it wasn't until recently that I started seeing these things everywhere.

In case you're more clueless than I am about these things (and bless you, if you are), a book trailer is similar to a movie trailer, only for a book. Wow. Is it any wonder I'm a writer, with such apt descriptions as that? To be more specific, the ones I've seen have combined written text with actor depictions of certain parts of the book, narrated by the author. If you ever took a literature class in college, it's sort of like a fancy book talk. In this case, the author's delivering the book talk, telling you about the book under pictures and video and text.

I hated book talks.

While I've been processing my thoughts on book trailers, I've been avoiding bringing up the topic with Smart Guy, sure he'll suggest I do one. Narfity narf narf. So imagine my surprise when he sent me an email late last night that read, "What is with 'book trailers?' Remember when you just bought a book because you heard it was good?" Then he sent me a link to one he'd run across. I was relieved that he sounded less-than-enthusiastic. That means we're on the same page, so to speak.
 
What is happening to us, the reading public? As readers, have we become so lazy that we can't even READ a book description to decide whether we want to read a book? As writers, do we have to turn everything into a cinematic experience to drum up interest? Who is the audience for these trailers? Readers who don't really like to read? Are we tricking people into reading books? "Look! Reading this book will be just like watching a movie!" No, it won't be. Reading this book will be just like reading a book. And if you don't like reading books, then... you won't like reading this one, either, no matter how you found out about it.

Okay, I'm being intentionally obtuse to prove a point, an annoying habit of mine that drives my friends and family crazy but that amuses me greatly and wins me many arguments. At least, it annoys people enough that they let me have the last word, which I usually interpret as "winning."

To prevent you from thinking I'm a complete idiot, though, I'll admit that I do understand what the purpose of a book trailer is. It broadens an author's marketing reach. Selling books is all about exposure. Most of the challenge is making people aware that your book even exists. You gotta blitz your potential readers. Bombard them with tweets, Facebook posts, posters, billboards, print, TV, and Internet ads, and now... book trailers. People are bound to see at least one of these forms of marketing. In theory.

The book trailer Smart Guy directed me to last night will remain nameless here, because I'm going to give my very blunt opinion of it. It was awful. It's not that it didn't look professional, because it did. I'm sure the author shelled out a ton of money to produce it. It looked like she did, anyway... for the most part. There were some questionable film shots used for certain parts of the trailer that didn't seem to correspond with her description of the plot, but the film quality was good. In other words, it didn't look like she recorded it on her cell phone. It was disturbing that I never saw an actor's face--there were a lot of hands doing things--but I guess that was in keeping with the literary tradition of allowing potential readers to use their imaginations. Very artsy.

The worst part of the trailer, though, was the author's description. It was rambling. She was sitting at what appeared to be her kitchen table, her laptop in front of her on the table. And while she may have had a rough script, I suspect there was a lot of ad-libbing going on. The director probably said, "Keep it casual, like you're talking to your next door neighbor about real people, not book characters." I wish she had ignored that advice. The two-and-a-half minute trailer could have been condensed to a minute, easily. As a matter of fact, I stopped watching about ninety seconds into it.

In spite of all that... I sort of want to read that book. I would have preferred taking thirty seconds to read a blurb about it on Amazon, instead of cringing my way through a minute-and-a-half of an author gushing about characters like they're her best friends and watching incongruent film shots featuring people with no faces, but I didn't run across a book description on Amazon, did I? This is the first I've heard of this book. And that's just it, isn't it? The trailer was the format that reached me first. And I didn't even have to watch the whole thing to decide I was curious enough to read it. So... it worked.

I'm fully aware I shouldn't admit this, because it means that a certain someone is going to use my own admission against me in an effort to convince me to do one, despite the fact that he seemed as perplexed and skeptical about them in his email to me. It's another tool in the toolbox and blah, blah, blah.

But when I visualize myself in a book trailer, I want to cry. As critical as I was of the author in the most recent trailer I watched, she came across a zillion times better than I would. I look like a writer. I look like I sit on my ass 95% of my life and stare at a computer screen, too absorbed in imaginary lives to care about things like skin care and haircuts and a balanced diet. And because I express myself in written form most of the time, I've pretty much lost my ability to speak coherently. I'm constantly mentally editing, which produces pauses and backtracks in my speech that make me sound like the village idiot.

Plus, as gooberish as she sometimes sounded when talking about her characters, she was cool and composed compared to the way I'd be. Since I fall in love with every male lead I've ever written, I'd sound like a giddy teenager while describing them. I'd be exposed as the pathetic dork I really am. I benefit greatly from people seeing as little of the real me as possible.

No, the book trailer would NOT be a good marketing medium for me. Hear that, Smart Guy? Not good.

Now, I need to go buy that book.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Readers Want to FEEL

A book is not a screenplay. Well! I'll take "Obvious Crap" for $1000, Alex.

Yes, you THINK that's obvious, but you'd be surprised how many writers of BOOKS don't understand that concept. You know why? Because they're already envisioning their books as movies.

Hands up who hasn't done that. (My hand is down, just so you know.)

But one of the biggest mistakes a fiction writer can make is to say, "This scene is great, because it's exactly how I picture it on the big screen." Oh, boy. Too bad the rest of the world isn't privy to the pretty pictures in your head. Actually, it's a really good thing the rest of the world isn't privy to the pictures in my head most of the time. But anyway...

Do I envision my books playing out like a movie in my head when I write them? Yes, of course. We are a movie-watching society. Our brains have been trained to work that way. I even go so far as to decide which actors would play my characters if it were a movie. Because that's just fun. But it would be a major mistake to treat a book like a screenplay during the writing process. That's because screenwriting purposely takes the emotion out of the equation.

A talented screenwriter recently told me that a true screenplay doesn't contain anything in it that you can't see on the screen. So, you can give stage directions, such as, "Jane frowned," but you can't say, "Jane's stomach dropped to her feet, and she felt like all the happiness had been sucked from the world." You can't say that, because you can't SEE that happening onscreen. You shouldn't write that in a book, either, because it sucks on sooooo many levels. But the point is... screenwriters write to show, because moviegoers need to SEE what's happening. Plus, actors will provide the emotional interpretation.

Books don't have the luxury of talented actors providing the translation of actions into emotions. That's the author's job. It starts with setting the scene with physical descriptions, but that's only the beginning. If a writer describes the action in a book like a passive observer, the reader will never relate to the characters. And what's the point of that? 

Books are nothing without feeling. And there's no way I can truly know how a character is feeling by "watching" him or her go through a bunch of stage directions. You may know when you read, "Jane frowned," that she's unhappy about something; however, a writer's goal is to make the reader feel what Jane's feeling, to describe what it feels like to be unhappy. Unfortunately, we all know. But not everyone can put it into words and make someone else remember how it feels, even when he or she is feeling far from unhappy (because they're reading a good book). But it's absolutely essential that the writer makes the reader feel what the character is feeling so that he or she can relate to that character.

Yeah, it's fun to imagine my novels being played out onscreen by beautiful actors who will meet me and want to be my best friends (sorry... those positions are already filled). BUT I gotta write the books first. Because I don't write movies. I write emotions.