Today's post is especially for writers--but it may also be of use to those struggling with how to find exactly the right words for certain amorphous emotions. Sometimes, we all get struck. The idea well runs dry, or the idea well runs dry, or we just feel like the idea well runs dry. For times like that, this post is essential. Already, this post has been hailed by major newspapers and magazines and also by international movie festival circles as "Pure Awesomeness Sliced Into Delightfully Thin Slices and Then Packaged as Deli Meat But Given Free of Charge."
Bono has called this post, "Mesmerizing."
The rest of the U2 band called this post, "Deeply Mesmerizing."
Michiko Kakutani has written, "Now that I have explored Luke's post for the thirty-second time, I am convinced that I have simply found the most perfect piece of English prose ever crafted."
Ryan Gosling was overheard shouting, "Yes! It's the one. I found it!"
Without further ado, then, here are NOVEL IDEAS (Titles Included!). Grab any one of these ideas, and go write that book you always knew you had inside of you.
1.
Title: Moon's Holiday
Premise: The Moon (as protagonist) becomes angry at the Sun's constant need to be "the source of all energy" and decides once and for all that he [note: possible angle of added tension if the moon is female while the sun is a patriarchal male figure] will take a holiday. After this occurs (which happens to be forty thousand years in the future), humankind must endure the destructive consequences of this holiday: no more frozen yogurt, constant replaying of old Burt Reynolds movies on every television channel, and the mysterious disappearance of all suspenders everywhere.
2.
Title: You Got Me, Babe
Premise: Conny and Sher are two people madly in love, but then they each begin growing a strange antennae from their heads. At first, each thinks the other is the only one with this strange metallic device poking out from their hair. But then, in Chapter 40, they finally look in a mirror and realize IT'S GROWING ON BOTH OF THEM. (Ends with this huge reveal and then leads into Book Two of the trilogy, where more stuff happens.)
3.
Title: Whether 'Tis Nobler in the Mind to Suffer the Slings and Arrows
Premise: This novel can pretty much be about anything. Because its title is taken from Shakespeare. And titles taken from Shakespeare are awesome. They rock.
4.
Title: Beach, Magnifying Glass, Condensation
Premise: An avid beach-walker finds a strange coin one morning on her beach walk. She leaves it on the nightstand later that night when she goes to bed. In the middle of the night the coin wakes her up by doing historical (and mind-bendingly accurate) impersonations of famous figures--Winston Churchill, George Bush (both) and other famous people that you can insert at will. As the novel progresses (and tension rise), the woman (who is named Samantha) must decide whether she will maintain her loyalty to the Talking Coin and resist what society tells her (That she is psychotic) or whether she will undergo therapy and intensive hospitalization.
Also, at the end of every chapter of the book, Samantha makes various smoothies. Each time, she uses different varieties of fruits, milk, yogurt, and sometimes even raisins and / or dried cranberries.
5.
Title: Yes, You Know That I am Talking To You
Premise: This book is told int eh second person. The novel centers around an elite group of army intelligence personnel (retired) who are convinced of a conspiracy plot to overthrow the current government. After lots of intrigue, wrongful-accusations, and unnecessary violence, the crew of underdogs finally prove the conspiracy, but just as they do so, the President orders for them to be summarily executed. Can they prove their innocence and resist the Covert Executive Order and save America before it's too late?
*Note: throughout the novel, many people will say (during dialogue): "Yes, you know that I am talking to you," which readers will begin to think of as a refrain. Then, this will also (somehow) be the last line of the book. And there will be a secret page that is folded into the hardcover copy of the book, which, when readers find it and pull it out, will say, Yes, You Know That I am Talking To You (which will really freak out readers and probably help generate interest for a movie deal.)
Showing posts with label Novel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Novel. Show all posts
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Heart of the Story
Today, I wrote a pivotal scene in a novel in progress. It's a novel that has seen two full re-writes already, and is now in its third round of reworking. It's the kind of scene that changes everything--redefines who's "bad" and "good" in the novel--makes the stakes higher, more tragic, more painful.
Why?
Why write a scene in which a central character has to endure something terrible? Something awful?
See, when I wrote the first draft of this novel, I avoided that kind of thing. It's a book about a ninth grade kid who wants to make his basketball team. (Kind of like...well...when yours truly was a ninth grade kid wanting to make a certain basketball team.) I wrote the original novel straight through in bursts and gusts like some kind of windstorm hepped up on the sound of catching, cascading leaves.
I wrote like fire on that first draft, all the while keeping my eyes on the finish line.
But in writing the novel like this the first time through, I only brushed the surface. I only threw a few minor obstacles in the path of my character (ahem, myself).
Okay: a minor bullying issue.
Okay: character locks up in basketball games, fumbles ball a a lot. Misses easy jumpers. Misses passes.
Okay: character has a crush on popular girl. Said girl does not, in any capacity, experience similar sense of crush-ness.
Resolution? Character's brother, teacher, father help character overcome these (minor) obstacles. Character makes team. Scores points.
Finish!
It was, essentially, 135 pages of if only.
The second draft saw more obstacles come to the character--more nuances personalities of others involved, more suffering, more confusion. But still, too easy. Too fast.
It was, essentially, 155 pages of maybe life could be like this, but it's not really that interesting or inspiring.
So then I did what any hard-working, determined, courageous novelist would do: I started a brand new novel. I didn't look at the other novel or work on it for another six months. I left that character (ahem, myself) stranded in a world without too many obstacles, without resolution or redemption for why he even wanted to make that team so badly, how his family was going to work things out, and a host of other confusing, plain-old-hard-to-forge-ahead dilemmas.
And the new novel was great fun! Such joy! Ah: the beginnings of things! Anything is possible, everything is possible.
But the other novel, when I was trying to escape it, kept doing small annoying things.
Like: when I'd be pumped about a great scene for the new novel, the old novel would whisper stuff like: Dude. Dude! You never even gave me a chance, did you? You wrote me up to a point, but just when you sensed that wall coming, you took cover and ducked out.
Like: when I'd think about other novel ideas to get brainstorming on, old novel would shake his head and say, And I was counting on you. Really. I was thinking we were forming a relationship built on trust. Commitment. Sticktoitiveness. At least I know how you REALLY feel.
New novel was fun. Brainstorming Novel was fun, too. There were (and are) some really neat ideas in both. But Old Novel saw right through me.
Then, something happened which made Old Novel's voice as loud as a Lion drinking five Red Bulls talking into a microphone attached to a state of the art sound system.
Francisco X. Stork came along and wrote a blog post which was beautiful, profound, moving, mesmerizing, and about one-hundred other adjectives. And one line in that one-hundred-plus adjective blog post took a walk off the screen of my computer, crawled across my keyboard, under my shirt, rock climbing up the many belly and chest hairs of my body, right up over my chine, lips, semi-large nose and directly in front of my eyes.
The novel you need to write is the one that scares you the most, the one you think no one will publish and if it is published no one will read and if it is read no one will understand, except perhaps another soul like yours.
The sentence joined forces with Old Novel and the two of them came at me like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover, like Milk and Cookies, like Dragons and Fire, like Laverne and Shirley, like garlic bread and more garlic bread.
I could no longer resist.
So I gave New Novel a few loving, tender words, and promised I'd return soon, and I opened up Old Novel and dug back in.
This time, however, I wrote intothe fear. I wrote into the places I didn't want my character (ahem, myself) to go. I wrote into the darkness and the confusion and into the pivotal scene I mentioned at the start of this post.
I cried.
A lot.
My heart was pounding, and I experienced a minor allergy attack, and the three people to my right in the computer lab kept looking over at me like, Why is that guy crying and sneezing and DOES HE HAVE TO TYPE SO LOUD?
Yes.
Because in this last month of Old Novel's third re-drafting, I am finally writing into the heart of the story. And it's scary and painful and wonderful and incredibly gooey in there. Nothing makes a whole lot of sense (yet). And nothing is easy. And no redemption is going to be possible without a lot of learning, one hefty character arc, and loads of transformation, from outside and from within.
Kind of, ahem, like my life.
When we write into the heart of the story, we're no longer writing with a publishing deal in mind, or with a certain audience in mind, or even with a goal in mind. When we really find ourselves getting into the center of the story, we're writing what has to be written--the words announce themselves and we're choosing to allow them the space to be who they are, show us what needs to happen even though it's scary and painful and all we want to do is say Surely there's got to be another way?
But there isn't.
(In writing, or in life.)
Without the pain, the redemption isn't real. Without the obstacles, the triumph isn't beautiful. Without the confusion and despair, the clarity and the hope aren't authentic.
And we we were somehow able to all get together under the guise of having a Jimmy Stewart movie marathon or a garlic bread-eating contest or something typical like that, but instead, we arrived at the wide open space with no television and no oven, and instead we all started talking about the kind of lives we want to live and the kind of stories we want to write, I'd venture to say that we'd come to a pretty quick consensus.
We want to write and live the ones that aren't easy. Even though the surface of ourselves and our culture certainly claims otherwise, we know deep down that we don't want ease. We don't want clarity without confusion. We don't want triumph without despair. We don't want love without first moving through and past fear.
And the only stories worth telling and the only lives worth living are those whose words and arms open up wide enough to embrace the suffering and the joy--knowing that both are necessary to both forge and move our hearts.
Why?
Why write a scene in which a central character has to endure something terrible? Something awful?
See, when I wrote the first draft of this novel, I avoided that kind of thing. It's a book about a ninth grade kid who wants to make his basketball team. (Kind of like...well...when yours truly was a ninth grade kid wanting to make a certain basketball team.) I wrote the original novel straight through in bursts and gusts like some kind of windstorm hepped up on the sound of catching, cascading leaves.
I wrote like fire on that first draft, all the while keeping my eyes on the finish line.
But in writing the novel like this the first time through, I only brushed the surface. I only threw a few minor obstacles in the path of my character (ahem, myself).
Okay: a minor bullying issue.
Okay: character locks up in basketball games, fumbles ball a a lot. Misses easy jumpers. Misses passes.
Okay: character has a crush on popular girl. Said girl does not, in any capacity, experience similar sense of crush-ness.
Resolution? Character's brother, teacher, father help character overcome these (minor) obstacles. Character makes team. Scores points.
Finish!
It was, essentially, 135 pages of if only.
The second draft saw more obstacles come to the character--more nuances personalities of others involved, more suffering, more confusion. But still, too easy. Too fast.
It was, essentially, 155 pages of maybe life could be like this, but it's not really that interesting or inspiring.
So then I did what any hard-working, determined, courageous novelist would do: I started a brand new novel. I didn't look at the other novel or work on it for another six months. I left that character (ahem, myself) stranded in a world without too many obstacles, without resolution or redemption for why he even wanted to make that team so badly, how his family was going to work things out, and a host of other confusing, plain-old-hard-to-forge-ahead dilemmas.
And the new novel was great fun! Such joy! Ah: the beginnings of things! Anything is possible, everything is possible.
But the other novel, when I was trying to escape it, kept doing small annoying things.
Like: when I'd be pumped about a great scene for the new novel, the old novel would whisper stuff like: Dude. Dude! You never even gave me a chance, did you? You wrote me up to a point, but just when you sensed that wall coming, you took cover and ducked out.
Like: when I'd think about other novel ideas to get brainstorming on, old novel would shake his head and say, And I was counting on you. Really. I was thinking we were forming a relationship built on trust. Commitment. Sticktoitiveness. At least I know how you REALLY feel.
New novel was fun. Brainstorming Novel was fun, too. There were (and are) some really neat ideas in both. But Old Novel saw right through me.
Then, something happened which made Old Novel's voice as loud as a Lion drinking five Red Bulls talking into a microphone attached to a state of the art sound system.
Francisco X. Stork came along and wrote a blog post which was beautiful, profound, moving, mesmerizing, and about one-hundred other adjectives. And one line in that one-hundred-plus adjective blog post took a walk off the screen of my computer, crawled across my keyboard, under my shirt, rock climbing up the many belly and chest hairs of my body, right up over my chine, lips, semi-large nose and directly in front of my eyes.
The novel you need to write is the one that scares you the most, the one you think no one will publish and if it is published no one will read and if it is read no one will understand, except perhaps another soul like yours.
The sentence joined forces with Old Novel and the two of them came at me like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover, like Milk and Cookies, like Dragons and Fire, like Laverne and Shirley, like garlic bread and more garlic bread.
I could no longer resist.
So I gave New Novel a few loving, tender words, and promised I'd return soon, and I opened up Old Novel and dug back in.
This time, however, I wrote intothe fear. I wrote into the places I didn't want my character (ahem, myself) to go. I wrote into the darkness and the confusion and into the pivotal scene I mentioned at the start of this post.
I cried.
A lot.
My heart was pounding, and I experienced a minor allergy attack, and the three people to my right in the computer lab kept looking over at me like, Why is that guy crying and sneezing and DOES HE HAVE TO TYPE SO LOUD?
Yes.
Because in this last month of Old Novel's third re-drafting, I am finally writing into the heart of the story. And it's scary and painful and wonderful and incredibly gooey in there. Nothing makes a whole lot of sense (yet). And nothing is easy. And no redemption is going to be possible without a lot of learning, one hefty character arc, and loads of transformation, from outside and from within.
Kind of, ahem, like my life.
When we write into the heart of the story, we're no longer writing with a publishing deal in mind, or with a certain audience in mind, or even with a goal in mind. When we really find ourselves getting into the center of the story, we're writing what has to be written--the words announce themselves and we're choosing to allow them the space to be who they are, show us what needs to happen even though it's scary and painful and all we want to do is say Surely there's got to be another way?
But there isn't.
(In writing, or in life.)
Without the pain, the redemption isn't real. Without the obstacles, the triumph isn't beautiful. Without the confusion and despair, the clarity and the hope aren't authentic.
And we we were somehow able to all get together under the guise of having a Jimmy Stewart movie marathon or a garlic bread-eating contest or something typical like that, but instead, we arrived at the wide open space with no television and no oven, and instead we all started talking about the kind of lives we want to live and the kind of stories we want to write, I'd venture to say that we'd come to a pretty quick consensus.
We want to write and live the ones that aren't easy. Even though the surface of ourselves and our culture certainly claims otherwise, we know deep down that we don't want ease. We don't want clarity without confusion. We don't want triumph without despair. We don't want love without first moving through and past fear.
And the only stories worth telling and the only lives worth living are those whose words and arms open up wide enough to embrace the suffering and the joy--knowing that both are necessary to both forge and move our hearts.
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