Writing & Reading

Title in Progress

Yesterday afternoon I reached the sixty-first page of my newest manuscript — and the point at which I was officially sick of calling it by my protagonist’s name. Honestly, where’s the inspiration in Winifred—Book?

Since I’d already written my daily allotment of six hundred of words (716, actually), I decided a new title was the next order of business. After a half hour of puttering I came up with a list of titles, all rejects. Granted, I hadn’t given it a lot of time, but I called in reinforcements anyway. My husband took on the challenge, armed with enthusiasm and a dictionary of international slang. The former was helpful; the latter, not so much.

The story is a middle-grade novel with fairy tale elements, which is why we (very inaccurately) became stuck on the princess theme. Here are a few of the results, some suggested in earnest, some in fits of hilarity, many inspired by that blasted slang dictionary I could not wrest from my husband’s hands:

• Your Basic, Everyday, Standard Princess
• The Princess and the Peace
• Pretty, Pretty Princess
• Pretty, Gritty Princess
• Pretty Ugly Princess
• The Vainglorious Princess
• Proto-Princess

The end result is that I’m no closer to a title, and the word “princess” has begun to sound strained and strange from repetition, but at least I can say I gave it a shot. Titles are usually fun, so I’m sure I’ll come up with something eventually.

Many of you write — books, blogs, etc. How do you come up with your titles? What, in your opinion, makes a good — or bad! — one?

My Mind Is Not Mine Own

I think I’m losing my mind. Even at the best of times my inner narrator provides an occasional play-by-play of my existence, but my current level of running commentary is reserved for the times when I’m almost exclusively absorbed in my writing, as I am now.

The source of this narratus intrusionous? I spend hours recounting the lives of my characters, and then I can’t seem to find the switch to turn off the narration. This means that I can’t do anything without a witness in my own brain observing all and synthesizing it into giant globs of first-draft text. Believe me, there’s nothing that will point out how mundane your life can be like having a blow-by-blow account of petting your cat or going to the bathroom. To illustrate, let me provide an especially riveting example from last night:

Caryn pulled open the fridge door and scanned the shelves, searching for a snack. Nothing. The pantry? Still nothing. Perhaps the freezer would come through. Of course, last night the freezer yielded a half-empty bag of dehydrated peas and a frozen pizza, but there was always hope…

This commentary is disturbing for several reasons. First of all, I’m referring to myself in the third person. That in itself is a clue that I need to fire my narrator and get a new one. Nothing against third person — I use it in my writing all the time — but when it comes to my own thoughts, I should at least be the lead character in my own life. Which makes me wonder: if I’m not the one doing the narrating, who is? I’d like to say it’s a gorgeous muse with flowing hair and a benevolent smile, filling sheets of parchment with golden words. Her quill pen yields a graceful cursive, and every line is poetry. The truth is more likely a cranky woman named Dolores residing in a shadowed corner of my brain. She has a gravely voice, a smoker’s cough and the language of a longshoreman. In-between attempts to brush away the dust in the air, she bangs away on the keys of a typewriter that is at least as crotchety as she is.

Second of all, I hyperbolize, even when I’m the only audience for my self-narrations. Sure, the quest for dinner didn’t stop with the freezer, but we certainly have more than a frozen pizza and an old bag of peas in there. That doesn’t make for good copy, however, so Dolores reworked the truth to add a little tension.

And, finally, it’s boring, despite the venture into hyperbole. Which is what I rediscover about my life whenever my inner narrator kicks in: There’s not a lot of drama, and when any does come along the hag in the attic actually shuts up so I can focus. That’s why I write. I get to give my characters exciting lives full of adventure and mayhem. Not that I’m complaining, really. That excitement often includes betrayal, war, pestilence, murder, and mass amounts of family turmoil, none of which I want in my own life. What I do want is for the voice to go away when I turn off the computer so I can have a little peace. <!– ckey=”2942F58A” –>

Puzzled

I just can’t figure out why today’s book revisions are taking so long. Anyone have any ideas? Maybe I’m low on sleep. Or on chocolate. Then again, it could be the weather. Yeah, the weather. That must be it…

(Yes, I do freely admit that taking pictures of the meddlesome beast and then posting them on the internet probably doesn’t help my already-hampered efficiency. However, it’s much more fun than tossing The Basil into a room, closing the door on his face, ignoring him until he quits howling for attention, and getting back to work.)

The Closest I’ll (Probably) Get to Ranting

Warning: Blatant Phlegmagery Ahead

I’ve come to the library to work in quiet and comfort among people. As I open my notebook, I hear the gentle slide of books taken from shelves and then replaced, the whisk of turning pages, the humming of the heater, the far-away mumble of voices at the circulation desk — and the relentless moist sniffing of a middle-aged man reading a mystery novel on the other side of the room.

Maybe it’s the high ceilings of the library, or perhaps he’s simply enthusiastic, but these blasts of noise are unnaturally loud. They drown out a nearby child’s sudden giggles, crowd into my thoughts, and slime into my throat, giving me the uncomfortable feeling that I’m the one who needs a tissue.

To preserve the calm of the library and to save myself from the annoyance of my own repeated sniffles, I brought tissues. Is it rude to stand up, stride across the room, and offer a handful of Puffs to the man who has now progressed from wet sniffles to echoey snorts? I can see myself smiling kindly at him, offering him the handful of tissues, pointing out that he must be uncomfortable, phrasing it as if I’m the one doing him a favor.

But I picture his defensive reply to an offer gone wrong, and I can’t. Instead, I wait for him to leave, glancing between the leaves of the ficus that blocks most of my view. Like contractions, I time his snorts. They are seven and a half seconds apart.

This guy’s not going anywhere soon. He is now biting his fist and leaning forward, absorbed in a scene in his book. Occasionally he coughs. I make a mental note not to select that novel next; no need to make more than an across-the-room acquaintance with his germs.

Resigned, I burrow back into my writing, determined to focus.

Nearly four hours later, I gather my belongings and head for the door. It has been a productive day — in between my unfortunate companion’s lapses. As I near the circulation desk, I look up and notice in horror that I am just eight feet behind the sniffler, who is also headed for the door. I am plowing through his germy wake and, even worse, I have missed the opportunity to write without the soundtrack of his own making. I consider returning to my still-warm seat, reopening my notebook and immersing myself in plot and characters and quiet, but my time is short, so I follow him reluctantly, vowing to pack music on my next foray to the library, just in case.