English verbs are said to have two voices: active and passive.
Active Voice: the subject of the sentence performs the action:
His son catches fly balls. Creative children often dream in class.
Passive Voice: the subject receives the action:
The ball was caught by the first baseman. The duty is performed by the new recruits. The dough was beaten by the mixer. The mailman was bitten by the dog.
Adjectives: Use sparingly and consciously. Overuse indicates a need to find more precise nouns and to show rather than tell.
Adverbs: Too often, writers use these to beef up weak verbs. Your goal should be to make verbs strong enough to do the work themselves and kill off your adverbs. You won’t be able to get rid of all of them, but circle each one in your draft and use a thesaurus to find strong verbs that characterize and carry emotions as well as convey action.
An adverb modifies a verb and clarifies the action. Avoid adverbs and use strong verbs instead, because adverbs “tell” rather than “show” the action.
Example:
“I don’t understand,” said the man angrily, his hands balled into fists. “Angrily” tells, and “balled into fists” shows that he is angry. So, “angrily” is redundant.
Avoiding adverbs that end in -ly: “The boy raced quickly along the sand.” If he was racing, we know it’s quickly.
Adjectives describe nouns. Try using strong verbs so adjectives aren’t necessary.
Examples:
“Tears came to her eyes and she looked away” rather than “Sad tears came to her eyes.”
“A nerve in his jaw pulsed and his fists were clenched” rather than “He was angry and a nerve . . . “
Verbs are the action words and can be scene stealers when used well. A verb that is used well rarely needs to be modified. Example:
“The bear responded angrily and he dangerously revealed his claws.”
Delete adverbs for a stronger sentence: “The bear growled and bared his claws.”
It’s almost never a good idea to use an adverb when writing dialogue. It takes away the reader’s delight to imagine the scene.
“Do this or I’ll kill you,” he said menacingly, can stand without that menacing adverb, since his comment is menacing.
There are times when an adverb enhances and clarifies the sentence. For example:
“The rain fell intermittently.” The adverb “intermittently” tells us that the rain fell off and on.
“He paid the bill occasionally.” In this sentence, occasionally is an important adverb.
Paraphrased from Writer’s Digest magazine, January 2006, “Pick Up the Pace”
Quick pacing hooks readers, creates tension, deepens the drama and speeds things along.
Picking up the pace increases tension. How to quicken the pace:
1. Start story in the middle of the dramatic action, not before the drama commences.
2. Keep description brief. This doesn’t mean using no description, but choose one or two telling, brief details.
3. Combine scenes. If one scene deepens character by showing a couple at dinner and a few scenes later they have a fight, let them have the fight at dinner.
4. Rely on dialogue. A lot of story can be carried by spoken conversation. Readers seldom skip dialogue.
5. Keep backstory to a minimum. The more we learn about characters through what they do now, in story time, the less you’ll need flashbacks, memories and exposition about their histories. All of these slow the pace.
6. Squeeze out every unnecessary word. This is the best way of all to increase pace. There are times you want a longer version for atmosphere, but be choosy. Wordiness kills pace and bores readers.
From Marlene: Use present tense rather than past tense for “real time” — so the reader travels along with the protagonist as they explore and discover together.
Today’s guest blogger, Victoria Zackheim, writes about how to keep up the energy, faith, and courage to write.
I recently walked into my newly built kitchen and discovered a large, grayish rectangular stain on the quartz counter. Had I placed a hot pan there? Not likely. Spilled bleach? Definitely not. I wiped, scrubbed, gently scoured… nothing helped. And then I lifted my arm and noticed a change in the shape of the stain. I had been trying to remove a reflection of light coming through the kitchen window.
This is the opening paragraph of an essay I wrote about aging. I smiled as I wrote what I expected to be the preface of my new book. However, I’ve been told by literary agents and several editor friends that writing about aging might be cathartic for me, the writer, but it doesn’t stir up much interest among the public. Really? In a country with an increasing elderly population? The last count put us at nearly 17%. That’s a lot of old people, and I’m willing to bet that a good many are readers.
Forget that we elderly are climbing mountains, running marathons and, in many cases, the country. We are a presence, a power, a voting force, and a major supporter of our county’s economy.
And we can write … but do we?
I often wonder how many of us older writers don’t write because we’ve been led to believe that no one gives a damn about what we have to say. I’m not talking about those gifted (and, by the way, older) authors who create exciting characters in literary fiction and mysteries, men and women who perform death-defying acts to catch the bad guy, or face society and its warped mores to find the truth about life. The work of writers such as Jeffery Deaver, Jane Smiley, Anne Perry and Caroline Leavitt sells like crazy, but they’ve spent years, decades, establishing their reputations both here and abroad. No, I’m referring to that world of writers who never get their place in the sun, and still refuse to give up.
And what about memoirs? The names that pop into my head are Abigail Thomas, Carrie Kabak, and Christine O’Hagan. They write with heart and soul, and they leave age behind.
I teach Personal Essay in the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program, online classes only, and spend nine weeks working with students ages twenty to ninety, and who are motivated, excited, and energized by the joy and freedom to write. I also conduct workshops at writers’ conferences, which is where I learned a valuable lesson about age. I’ve had students in their sixties, seventies and eighties, but no one taught me more about the importance—and yes, the unimportance—of age, than a student who was about to celebrate his ninety-third birthday. At first, some of the younger students (mostly middle-aged) ignored him, until it was his turn to stand up and read the first draft of his essay. He stood, wobbled a bit, and then leveled those young whippersnappers with a poignant, beautifully written, and very funny piece, a vignette from his life. His writing was simple, straightforward, honest, and he didn’t give a damn about what he said, as long as he was telling his story. That was more than a decade ago. I hope he’s still writing.
So, how do we, as older writers, find the means to write? Or perhaps the real question should be: how do we keep up the energy, faith, and courage to write? My agent is pitching my first mystery novel. I have to wonder how many editors will Google me, discover my age, and then think, “Oh dear, oh my, at that age, we can’t nurture her along, and we certainly can’t count on sequels.” The responses to my agent have been “soft” rejections. Soft or hard, no is no.
Now, let’s look at another conundrum. As an older writer, what can you possibly write that anyone wants to read? Uh, hello! You have many more decades of life experience than up-and-coming (read: young) writers. Do they search for their glasses when they’re perched their head? Have they put their keys in the refrigerator, or tried to answer the phone with the TV remote? Or get frustrated when attempting to turn on the TV with their cell phone? When I do this, and casually mention it to my children or grandchildren, they smile. That is, they smile indulgently, hoping I don’t notice the pity or fear rushing through their hearts. But when I relate the same faux pas to friends of my age, I’m sure to get (1) a laugh and (2) a story about what happened to her/him that matches mine. We are a grand and wonderful people, we oldies.
So, what am I saying? I guess I’m suggesting that older writers need to forge ahead. Screw the age; write what you know. Write what you are. If you write what you think will sell, that’s fine, we all need to make a living. But be good to yourself and carve out some time where you can be you. Old. Wise. Funny. And, yes, even a bit tasteless! (You know, the stuff you don’t want your children to read until after you’re dead … or you’ve published under a pseudonym. My children still don’t know about the time I … never mind.)
Aging gracefully relies on accepting ourselves. If we don’t accept who we are, it will show up in our writing. Our older characters might be very well-behaved, pontifical, wise, which can be synonyms for dull. Create the characters first and see where they take you. I love Elizabeth George’s younger character, Barbara Havers, and Anne Perry’s new-series character, twenty-something Elena Standish. But I also gravitate towards the older and wiser. Is there a fictional character more fascinating and complex than Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge? Or Wallace Stegner’s Lyman Ward in Angle of Repose? And I would be remiss not to mention Santiago, Hemingway’s memorable and haunting character from The Old Man and the Sea. (I seriously doubt that The Middle-Aged Man and the Sea would have received such acclaim.)
So, yes, we are older writers, but in no way does that mean we are old. And I ask you, what’s more exciting: creating characters and plot lines, or worrying about sleeping through the night and having regular bowel movements?
Carol Channing lived to ninety-seven. That gives me nearly twenty years to write, fall in love, manage crepey skin and liver spots, learn to make pasta on one of those machines, and write several sequels to the mystery that will be published one fine day.
What can you do to keep your creative juices flowing? Here are some ideas:
Daydream. That is, daydream about the plot and characters of the novel, play, memoir, essay, screenplay, short story you always wanted to write— the one you imagined during that long drive, when your imagination was going wild. Now is the time.
Be courageous. It doesn’t take courage to write at this age, but it does take courage to put the work out there to be judged.
Trust yourself. I worked with a writer who held onto her essay for my anthology because she wanted feedback from her writing group. I convinced her to send it to me instead, since I would be her editor. It was brilliant. Over time, she has learned to trust herself.
Ask for feedback. While it isn’t always helpful, there might be comments that lead you to better understand what you’ve written. But remember that you must be discerning. Not everyone has a good eye for good writing, so be sure you invite someone into your heart who is kind, trustworthy, and loves to read. And never forget the person you must trust more than anyone … you!
I have a dear friend, Aviva Layton, who is about to become eighty-nine. (Notice I didn’t say “turn eighty-nine” because that sounds too much like fruit going rotten.) She does Zumba twice a week and works around thirty hours a week editing manuscripts. Aviva believes that old age is absurd, but it also has its advantages. She can tell a gorgeously handsome and sexy man that he’s gorgeous and sexy without his thinking she has ulterior motives … even if she does. And she never has to hoist her luggage onto the overhead bin. If I’m putting together a new anthology that fits into anything relating to her life, she’s invited. Aviva’s work is passionate, funny, real and never sugar-coated. At this age, sugar-coating anything is a waste of time.
So, what can you do to bring joy and creativity to your golden writing years? Take your vitamins, try to exercise, wear your mask in public if you choose. And carve out quiet time. Not for resting, but for contemplating your next writing project.
Don’t be afraid to play with ideas. Play with scenes. Play with characters and plots. Play with fantasies about how to spend the royalties. But whatever you do, don’t play it safe.
Victoria Zackheimis the author of the novel, “The Bone Weaver,” and creator/editor of seven anthologies, including the international bestselling “The Other Woman,” that she adapted to theater and has been performed in several dozen theaters across the United States. She wrote the documentary “Where Birds Never Sang: The Story of Ravensbrück and Sachsenhausen Concentration Camps,” which aired nationwide on PBS.
Zackheim is a playwright and screenwriter, with two plays and a feature film now in development. She teaches creative nonfiction in the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program and is a frequent conference speaker and writing instructor in the US and abroad. She lives in Northern California.
“The key to a good essay is conflict, and the story’s (and character’s) arc. People have to change during the story, whether fiction or non-fiction. — Victoria Zackheim, interviewed by Chris Jane in JaneFriedman.com.
Victoria Zackheim is the author of the novel The Bone Weaver and editor of six anthologies:
He Said What?
Women Write About Moments When Everything Changed
The Other Woman
Twenty-one Wives, Lovers, and Others Talk Openly About Sex, Deception, Love, and Betrayal
For Keeps: Women Tell the Truth About Their Bodies, Growing Older, and Acceptance
The Face in the Mirror
Writers Reflect on Their Dreams of Youth and the Reality of Age
Exit Laughing: How Humor Takes the Sting Out of Death
and the upcoming FAITH: Essays from Believers, Agnostics, and Atheists (Feb. 2015).
Victoria’s play, The Other Woman, based on her first anthology, will be featured in OneNight/OnePlay, and her play Entangled, an adaptation of the memoir Entangled: A Chronicle of Late Love, is in development at Z Space in San Francisco.
Victoria’s first screenplay, MAIDSTONE, is now in development. She is story developer and writer of Where Birds Never Sang: The Story of Ravensbruck and Sachsenhausen Concentration Camps, aired nationwide by PBS.
Victoria teaches Personal Essay in the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. Victoria was a 2010 San Francisco Library Laureate.
Note from Marlene: I have taken classes by Victoria. She is an amazing teacher, well worth the price (and it wasn’t that expensive!).
Want to challenge yourself? Take one of your characters (fiction or non-fiction) and do what Victoria suggests . . . give him or her a conflict. Spend thirteen minutes on a freewrite. See what happens. Need a boost? Take a look at Prompts 132 and 133 for ideas on character development.
How many of us are beset by that nagging voice that tells us we’re not good enough, not thin enough, not smart, tall, educated, talented enough? I don’t know about you, but I face this every day. It used to run my life . . . now it’s a tiny slice of annoyance that I can easily push away. It took years—decades, to be honest—but those demons are silenced. When they try to reappear, they’re quickly vanquished. Not dead and gone, but shoved aside where they can do no harm.
It wasn’t always like that . . . and for many women, and those of us who spend our lives not only writing, but putting our words into the world for everyone to read . . . and judge . . . fear is often the rule, whereas a sense of security is the exception.
Girls are too often told to behave, not to rock the boat, but if we want to live full and creative lives, we must take risks. I have a friend with ten novels published, including at least one on the NY Times bestseller list, and she still worries herself sick with every publication. I have another friend who’s got nearly thirty million books in print, yet she battles the same self doubt suffered by first-time authors. Why do we do this to ourselves?
It’s about trust. Trusting ourselves. Trusting the universe to treat us kindly. Trusting our friends and family to be there for us, sharing the celebration when all goes well, sharing the pain when it doesn’t. And we have to trust time, that finite thing that can be friend or foe. A support system is golden. For me, it’s what keeps me breathing, writing, and taking risks. When I hit 60, I was NOT happy with my body of work, so I decided to act on every creative thought that crossed my brain. I promised myself to view a no-go idea not as a failure, but as an idea that had no legs. And I created a new definition of “failure”: the idea we’re too afraid to pursue,
The result? Since I made that promise to myself, I’ve sold six books, have two plays in development, signed an option with Identity Films for my first feature screenplay, wrote a documentary that ran nationwide on PBS, and am teaching writing workshops for UCLA online, and at writers’ conferences here, as well as in Canada, France and Mexico.
You are never too old to follow your dreams. You want to write a memoir, but you’re convinced that your mother’s ghost will haunt you? Make it a novel! Got an idea for a play, short story, anthology . . . just do it!
Whatever you read in the beauty magazines, whatever the television commercials promise, you ARE getting older . . . and it’s a good thing. Every day gives you one more shot of maturity, confidence, and fodder for your writing . . .or for living a fuller and more satisfying life. As for me . . . I can’t wait to see what my seventies bring!
Victoria Zackheim is the author of the novel, The Bone Weaver, and editor of six anthologies, the most recent being FAITH: Believers, Agnostics, and Atheists Confront the Big Questions (working title, Simon & Schuster/Beyond Words, March 2015 publication). Her screenplay, Maidstone, a feature film, is in development with Identity Films. Her plays The Other Woman and Entangled are in development, with the latter having its staged reading at San Francisco’s Z Space Theater in April. Victoria writes documentary films for On the Road Productions. Their latest, Where Birds Never Sang, appeared nationwide on PBS. She teaches Personal Essay in the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program and is a 2010 San Francisco Library Laureate.
