It's been a while since I have touched on this subject. Probably the last time was in 2010. But that's not to say it hasn't happened or deeply touched me since then because it has. Query letters to agents and publishers, a manuscript submission, awards and contests -- lots of rejections.
I am thinking about it now because I am expecting another rejection soon, perhaps as early as Monday. I submitted the beginning of my detective novel An Untidy Affair for an award. I should probably hear by Monday. It's not for a publication, but there is a cash award. Hooray. The submission was some time ago and I have managed not to think about it much until now.
Now I know this is getting the cart before the horse. (Where have I heard that before?) But while the submission was strong -- it's a good book and even in rejection at the end of last year, a publisher said it was a good piece of work -- but I'm sure the competition is strong. And I guess it is easier to be pessimistic at this point so I won't be as disappointed when the news comes. (Kind of like Donald Trump has started to say the November is rigged just in case Clinton beats him.)
The novel reached the quarterfinals in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest back in 2010, so I know it has potential. That was the reason I submitted it to this award. (No, I'm not going to say which award right now. You will have to wait.)
Since in the publishing industry luck is nearly as important as talent, wish me luck. I already have the talent part handled.
Thanks for reading and don't give up.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Do you know Lincoln's Gettysburg Address?
It's a joke, of course. "Do you know Lincoln's Gettysburg Address?"
I first heard it on television many years ago, as a child, actually. I think it was on the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. The punchline is: "I didn't know he moved."
To get the joke, you need a modicum of knowledge of U.S. history and even as a child I got it. And later, as an adult, I used the joke as the baseline (and a low baseline, at that) for determining whether a person had any understanding or knowledge of history. You'd be amazed at the number of people who don't.
As a writer, you need to hit the sweet spot between people's knowledge and understanding of your topic or subject, and your presentation of something new and imaginative. Lean too far on the former and the reader will get bored and stop reading. Can't have that.
But to lean too heavily on the latter could result in the reader lacking context. And again, the reader could stop reading. Can't have that.
My beta readers -- a select group of friends and colleagues and others -- like my writing, which is great. Members of my critique group are great at pointing out problems in both my writing and storytelling.
But as a fiction writer, I am still insecure. Am I giving my reader something new and imaginative but without a context they can understand? Am I just writing what others have written before? I truly don't know.
I was much more confident as a reporter. I generally knew what I wrote hit the mark. But fiction seems so much more subjective, although I know it's not.
Anyway, I'm working on it. But in the meantime, do you know Lincoln's Gettysburg Address?
Thanks for reading.
I first heard it on television many years ago, as a child, actually. I think it was on the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. The punchline is: "I didn't know he moved."
To get the joke, you need a modicum of knowledge of U.S. history and even as a child I got it. And later, as an adult, I used the joke as the baseline (and a low baseline, at that) for determining whether a person had any understanding or knowledge of history. You'd be amazed at the number of people who don't.
As a writer, you need to hit the sweet spot between people's knowledge and understanding of your topic or subject, and your presentation of something new and imaginative. Lean too far on the former and the reader will get bored and stop reading. Can't have that.
But to lean too heavily on the latter could result in the reader lacking context. And again, the reader could stop reading. Can't have that.
My beta readers -- a select group of friends and colleagues and others -- like my writing, which is great. Members of my critique group are great at pointing out problems in both my writing and storytelling.
But as a fiction writer, I am still insecure. Am I giving my reader something new and imaginative but without a context they can understand? Am I just writing what others have written before? I truly don't know.
I was much more confident as a reporter. I generally knew what I wrote hit the mark. But fiction seems so much more subjective, although I know it's not.
Anyway, I'm working on it. But in the meantime, do you know Lincoln's Gettysburg Address?
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
A long sentence
A long sentence isn't necessarily a better sentence. Often times, it's just a long sentence.
Word.
Thanks for reading. Now get back to writing.
Word.
Thanks for reading. Now get back to writing.
Monday, August 8, 2016
The ending
Last week, I wrote about the beginning of a novel or short story. Or more specifically, I wrote about the sentence that comes AFTER the first sentence, the second sentence, which must also be a grabber and keep grabbing.
Today, I want to skip past the beginning, over the middle, and go straight to the ending. Because it is the ending that the reader will most likely remember first.
A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to a fan of my short story Miss Hattie Mae's Secret. She loved the beginning and, I admit, I do, too. Of all my published and unpublished fiction, it is perhaps my favorite opening. (As I posted last Aug. 1, in this blog, the first two paragraphs have a total of only five words. ["Miss Hattie Mae Farted. Often."] It is minimalist to say the least.) But the reader, who enjoyed the story, was upset with the ending. She wondered what happened next. And, in not knowing, was somewhat vexed.
(For those of you who haven't read the entire story, it ends with the county sheriff coming to visit Miss Hattie Mae to discuss the newly unearthed secret that she has kept for eight decades.)
One of the goals in writing, particularly in genre fiction such as mysteries which I write, is to tie up loose ends. Miss Hattie Mae's Secret started and ended with her, all 95 years of age, on the porch and farting. I originally planned to write more but when I got to that point I stopped because I thought I said all that needed to be said. Anything further I left to the reader.
In all stories, real and fictional, something happens before the point where the writer begins the story and something happens after the story ends. Fictional life, as in real life, is part of a continuum and the writer, almost arbitrarily, begins and ends the telling wherever they choose.
But as a writer, you do want to leave the reader satisfied at the end. Otherwise, they may feel like they wasted their time. You don't want to do that. Case in point, my favorite book from last year. The Martian. I loved the story and enjoyed the book. And, having read it several times, do not think I wasted my time. But I wasn't thrilled with the ending, which was just after Mark Watney is rescued and is beginning his seven-month journey home. The movie, I think, did it better. It ends with Mark back on earth and training new NASA recruits on survival.
I think I approach an ending in fiction the way I always did as a daily journalist. When I got to the end, I stopped writing. When you have said it all, just stop.
And so it is with this.
Thanks for reading.
The end.
Today, I want to skip past the beginning, over the middle, and go straight to the ending. Because it is the ending that the reader will most likely remember first.
A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to a fan of my short story Miss Hattie Mae's Secret. She loved the beginning and, I admit, I do, too. Of all my published and unpublished fiction, it is perhaps my favorite opening. (As I posted last Aug. 1, in this blog, the first two paragraphs have a total of only five words. ["Miss Hattie Mae Farted. Often."] It is minimalist to say the least.) But the reader, who enjoyed the story, was upset with the ending. She wondered what happened next. And, in not knowing, was somewhat vexed.
(For those of you who haven't read the entire story, it ends with the county sheriff coming to visit Miss Hattie Mae to discuss the newly unearthed secret that she has kept for eight decades.)
One of the goals in writing, particularly in genre fiction such as mysteries which I write, is to tie up loose ends. Miss Hattie Mae's Secret started and ended with her, all 95 years of age, on the porch and farting. I originally planned to write more but when I got to that point I stopped because I thought I said all that needed to be said. Anything further I left to the reader.
In all stories, real and fictional, something happens before the point where the writer begins the story and something happens after the story ends. Fictional life, as in real life, is part of a continuum and the writer, almost arbitrarily, begins and ends the telling wherever they choose.
But as a writer, you do want to leave the reader satisfied at the end. Otherwise, they may feel like they wasted their time. You don't want to do that. Case in point, my favorite book from last year. The Martian. I loved the story and enjoyed the book. And, having read it several times, do not think I wasted my time. But I wasn't thrilled with the ending, which was just after Mark Watney is rescued and is beginning his seven-month journey home. The movie, I think, did it better. It ends with Mark back on earth and training new NASA recruits on survival.
I think I approach an ending in fiction the way I always did as a daily journalist. When I got to the end, I stopped writing. When you have said it all, just stop.
And so it is with this.
Thanks for reading.
The end.
Friday, August 5, 2016
After the opening line, what comes next?
So, what's the next line?
From writers to editors, from agents to teachers and writing coaches, from publishers to Internet bloggers, everyone in the writing and publishing industry stresses the importance of a good opening line. It's almost as if you don't nail the opening line, you might as well give up and go home. While I doubt readers care as much about this as writers do, I don't doubt its importance, which is why I -- like so many writers -- sweat that first line.
Oddly, we don't tend to get as insane with what comes next -- the second line. And why not?
That question came to mind thanks to a friend and former colleague.
The venerable sage Joe Boyce was a Chicago cop back in the late 1960s -- sit back and contemplate that for a second. A black cop in Chicago in the late 60s -- before getting the journalism bug. He spent time at the Chicago Tribune before heading off to Time magazine, and then finally to the Wall Street Journal before retiring. He's a musician now and enjoying retirement.
Last month, on his Facebook page, he started posting a one-sentence prompt -- the opening sentence -- and asked his friends to write the next line. But one line only.
Some people wrote an interesting sentence, full of thought, full of promise. But frankly, some people wrote unimaginative, boring stuff. They seemed to give it no thought at all. And other people failed to read his instructions fully and wrote more than one sentence.
But I took it seriously. And I followed Joe's instructions.
Regardless of the prompt, I tried to write something as compelling as the first sentence. Because it's the next sentence and the next sentence and the next that makes for good, consistent writing and storytelling. I knew that, of course, but Joe just reminded me of it. Your writing can lose a reader at any point. Therefore, the next sentence is always important.
So, Joseph, thank you, as always, for keeping it real.
And to everyone else, thanks for reading. And keep writing.
From writers to editors, from agents to teachers and writing coaches, from publishers to Internet bloggers, everyone in the writing and publishing industry stresses the importance of a good opening line. It's almost as if you don't nail the opening line, you might as well give up and go home. While I doubt readers care as much about this as writers do, I don't doubt its importance, which is why I -- like so many writers -- sweat that first line.
Oddly, we don't tend to get as insane with what comes next -- the second line. And why not?
That question came to mind thanks to a friend and former colleague.
The venerable sage Joe Boyce was a Chicago cop back in the late 1960s -- sit back and contemplate that for a second. A black cop in Chicago in the late 60s -- before getting the journalism bug. He spent time at the Chicago Tribune before heading off to Time magazine, and then finally to the Wall Street Journal before retiring. He's a musician now and enjoying retirement.
Last month, on his Facebook page, he started posting a one-sentence prompt -- the opening sentence -- and asked his friends to write the next line. But one line only.
Some people wrote an interesting sentence, full of thought, full of promise. But frankly, some people wrote unimaginative, boring stuff. They seemed to give it no thought at all. And other people failed to read his instructions fully and wrote more than one sentence.
But I took it seriously. And I followed Joe's instructions.
Regardless of the prompt, I tried to write something as compelling as the first sentence. Because it's the next sentence and the next sentence and the next that makes for good, consistent writing and storytelling. I knew that, of course, but Joe just reminded me of it. Your writing can lose a reader at any point. Therefore, the next sentence is always important.
So, Joseph, thank you, as always, for keeping it real.
And to everyone else, thanks for reading. And keep writing.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Kendall Hunter
I'm in love. Deeply. Passionately. Completely.
I often get a thrill just thinking about The Woman.
Her name is Kendall. Kendall Hunter. And she is currently the love of my life. Well, kinda.
Now, this would be more than a bit adulterous, except in this context. (It still might be, even in this context, but I don't think so.) That's because Kendall is fictional. Created from whole cloth from my brain. (Am I sounding messianic?) That's not to say I didn't have some inspiration for the character from a friend, a muse who has proven to be very helpful as I develop Kendall. But all that Kendall is comes from me. I just don't know yet what's going to happen to her.
Kendall Hunter is the main character in my upcoming short story, Callipygian, which will be published this October by the Speed City chapter of Sisters in Crime in their anthology, "The Fine Art of Murder." Closer to the publication date, I'll drop an excerpt. But for now, I'll just say it's the story of an FBI criminal profiler (Kendall) who, while she is on vacation in Indianapolis visiting family, is drawn into the investigation into the theft of three valuable paintings, including one called Callipygian. The plot thickens, as they say, when the main suspect is found murdered.
(Callipygian. I also love that word. I was listening to an interview by Terry Gross on NPR's Fresh Air about two years ago and her guest used the word. Terry, who is smart, well-educated and well-prepared in interviews, didn't appear to know the word, which I didn't either. When I looked it up, I decided then and there to somehow use it. So I built this short story around it.)
While this will be my first published story with this character, it isn't the first time I have written this character. The first story is called Black on Black in Black. White folks may not get that but it should ring a bell with black folks. In that story, Kendall is called in to profile a serial killer.
Kendall is a tall, beautiful, single black woman, who is smart and clever. Very clever, in fact. Work is her focus, and she does it extremely well, but she needs to get a personal life. And she harbors a deep secret from her past that could turn her life around. It's what I'm trying to explore in each new story -- there are four in total, including my current short story WIP (work in progress). Discovering who she is is why I'm so in love with her. She's interesting and fun, occasionally funny, brainy, well-dressed and has a killer body. (I like big butts and I cannot lie. What else can I say?)
But like I said earlier, I don't know yet what's going to happen to her. I can't keep her forever, even as I start publishing her stories. It'll be sad when it's over.
But I know it will come to an end, even if she doesn't. I am a fickle lover and I know in time I will fall madly in love with another fictional characters. Those I have loved in the past have just let it go and moved on. I only hope Kendall Hunter will do the same and not become a jealous lover, willing to do anything to hold on to me. Because that WOULD be scary.
I'm having fun with her now. And after the story is published, I hope you will enjoy her, too.
Thanks for reading and keep on writing.
I often get a thrill just thinking about The Woman.
Her name is Kendall. Kendall Hunter. And she is currently the love of my life. Well, kinda.
Now, this would be more than a bit adulterous, except in this context. (It still might be, even in this context, but I don't think so.) That's because Kendall is fictional. Created from whole cloth from my brain. (Am I sounding messianic?) That's not to say I didn't have some inspiration for the character from a friend, a muse who has proven to be very helpful as I develop Kendall. But all that Kendall is comes from me. I just don't know yet what's going to happen to her.
Kendall Hunter is the main character in my upcoming short story, Callipygian, which will be published this October by the Speed City chapter of Sisters in Crime in their anthology, "The Fine Art of Murder." Closer to the publication date, I'll drop an excerpt. But for now, I'll just say it's the story of an FBI criminal profiler (Kendall) who, while she is on vacation in Indianapolis visiting family, is drawn into the investigation into the theft of three valuable paintings, including one called Callipygian. The plot thickens, as they say, when the main suspect is found murdered.
(Callipygian. I also love that word. I was listening to an interview by Terry Gross on NPR's Fresh Air about two years ago and her guest used the word. Terry, who is smart, well-educated and well-prepared in interviews, didn't appear to know the word, which I didn't either. When I looked it up, I decided then and there to somehow use it. So I built this short story around it.)
While this will be my first published story with this character, it isn't the first time I have written this character. The first story is called Black on Black in Black. White folks may not get that but it should ring a bell with black folks. In that story, Kendall is called in to profile a serial killer.
Kendall is a tall, beautiful, single black woman, who is smart and clever. Very clever, in fact. Work is her focus, and she does it extremely well, but she needs to get a personal life. And she harbors a deep secret from her past that could turn her life around. It's what I'm trying to explore in each new story -- there are four in total, including my current short story WIP (work in progress). Discovering who she is is why I'm so in love with her. She's interesting and fun, occasionally funny, brainy, well-dressed and has a killer body. (I like big butts and I cannot lie. What else can I say?)
But like I said earlier, I don't know yet what's going to happen to her. I can't keep her forever, even as I start publishing her stories. It'll be sad when it's over.
But I know it will come to an end, even if she doesn't. I am a fickle lover and I know in time I will fall madly in love with another fictional characters. Those I have loved in the past have just let it go and moved on. I only hope Kendall Hunter will do the same and not become a jealous lover, willing to do anything to hold on to me. Because that WOULD be scary.
I'm having fun with her now. And after the story is published, I hope you will enjoy her, too.
Thanks for reading and keep on writing.
Monday, August 1, 2016
An excerpt of Miss Hattie Mae's Secret, published in Decades of Dirt (2015).
Hello, everyone. Many of you have 'liked' my author page on Facebook (Look for author MB Dabney, on Facebook, and like me if you haven't already.) and months ago read on excerpt from my story, Miss Hattie Mae's Secret in the anthology, Decades of Dirt. My story is the last one of 15 stories of murder, mystery and mayhem in the book, which is still available on Amazon for $9.99. And you can also get an e-book version for $2.99.
So please, if you can and haven't yet, get a copy of Decades of Dirt. And enjoy all the wonderful stories you will find there.
And for a taste, here is an excerpt from the beginning of Miss Hattie Mae's Secret by MB Dabney.
_____
Miss Hattie Mae farted...
So please, if you can and haven't yet, get a copy of Decades of Dirt. And enjoy all the wonderful stories you will find there.
And for a taste, here is an excerpt from the beginning of Miss Hattie Mae's Secret by MB Dabney.
_____
Miss Hattie Mae farted...
Often.
When anyone mentioned the flatulence, she’d blame it on the dog. She blamed most things on the dog. Only problem was, Miss Hattie Mae didn’t have a dog, hadn’t for years.
What Miss Hattie Mae did have was a secret – one that spanned decades. The secret was like a respectful traveling companion: generally silent but always present. She was one month shy of 96 and the secret had come to define her life for more than eight decades.
Her small, five-room dwelling had a distinctive, although not all together unpleasant, aroma from all the years Miss Hattie Mae had lived, cooked and farted in the house. She was born there, lived there most of her life (even after she married), and raised her children under its leaky roof.
Hattie Mae’s father Ezra Reeves built the house right after he moved to the area with his new bride Ruth the year before Hattie Mae was born. At the time, the house sat at one end of their land, which stretched 40 acres. Over time, and with hard work and careful buying, Ezra’s property grew to more than 200 acres on which his extended family farmed cotton and soybeans. A small portion of land, the part closest to the house, also held apple and peach trees. Her mother’s apple pies were legendary in the small black community outside of Clarksville, Tennessee. When she wasn’t forced to work in the fields when she was growing up, Hattie Mae liked to play along a line of oak trees visible at the other end of their property.
The house, now sitting on a small parcel of land, was all the property she had left, though it wasn’t her only financial asset. In truth, Miss Hattie Mae was a millionaire, a recent development she cared little about.
Last year, the federal government used eminent domain to take most of her land – and paid her handsomely for it, which explained her wealth. Plans were for the expansion of a four-lane highway for traffic heading to and from Clarksville. Large land movers arrived last week to start tearing down those oak trees and reworking the property in preparation for the highway construction.
But the land held secrets; long buried secrets that were about to be exposed for the first time in decades.
Miss Hattie Mae’s eyesight was poor, but she could still distinguish the flashing lights atop the police cars among the land movers at the edge of the line of oak trees.
“Boy,” she said, her tongue licking her lips, “Betta go tel-ah-phone yo pappy.”
____
Thanks for reading.
When anyone mentioned the flatulence, she’d blame it on the dog. She blamed most things on the dog. Only problem was, Miss Hattie Mae didn’t have a dog, hadn’t for years.
What Miss Hattie Mae did have was a secret – one that spanned decades. The secret was like a respectful traveling companion: generally silent but always present. She was one month shy of 96 and the secret had come to define her life for more than eight decades.
Her small, five-room dwelling had a distinctive, although not all together unpleasant, aroma from all the years Miss Hattie Mae had lived, cooked and farted in the house. She was born there, lived there most of her life (even after she married), and raised her children under its leaky roof.
Hattie Mae’s father Ezra Reeves built the house right after he moved to the area with his new bride Ruth the year before Hattie Mae was born. At the time, the house sat at one end of their land, which stretched 40 acres. Over time, and with hard work and careful buying, Ezra’s property grew to more than 200 acres on which his extended family farmed cotton and soybeans. A small portion of land, the part closest to the house, also held apple and peach trees. Her mother’s apple pies were legendary in the small black community outside of Clarksville, Tennessee. When she wasn’t forced to work in the fields when she was growing up, Hattie Mae liked to play along a line of oak trees visible at the other end of their property.
The house, now sitting on a small parcel of land, was all the property she had left, though it wasn’t her only financial asset. In truth, Miss Hattie Mae was a millionaire, a recent development she cared little about.
Last year, the federal government used eminent domain to take most of her land – and paid her handsomely for it, which explained her wealth. Plans were for the expansion of a four-lane highway for traffic heading to and from Clarksville. Large land movers arrived last week to start tearing down those oak trees and reworking the property in preparation for the highway construction.
But the land held secrets; long buried secrets that were about to be exposed for the first time in decades.
Miss Hattie Mae’s eyesight was poor, but she could still distinguish the flashing lights atop the police cars among the land movers at the edge of the line of oak trees.
“Boy,” she said, her tongue licking her lips, “Betta go tel-ah-phone yo pappy.”
____
Thanks for reading.
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