The Order of Things

When I read high schoolers' senior research papers and college entrance essays, I usually find the biggest hiccup in organization.

Voice is high (high schoolers have no problem telling all about themselves), but the paragraphs, though generally cohesive within themselves, are wonkily ordered, with evasive intros and double, if any, conclusions.

Somehow, after graduation, the organization issue seems to straighten itself out. And while I can't help wondering if sequencing is a product of human development, I have come up with some tricks:

Does the essay really start at the beginning? Or is intro more compelling one sentence, maybe one paragraph in?

A trick for this is to ask how the intro starts--with setting, scene, imagery, question, statement...

Do you already know the conclusion? Because this will lend itself to a strong, focused body.

Is there something in the middle, even in/toward the end, that could be moved way up?

Are transitional phrases used to show the reader You Are Here?

What kind(s) of conclusion(s) are used: summary/revisitation, projection, question, quote, imagery, call-to-action/examination?

And how about title--which must be written last: is it clever, reflective of content?

Hmmm... Lots to think about.

Coming soon: Content.

Go Get Yourself a Writing Group!

I will spare you a post on how I hurt myself terribly watching a "Stellaluna" puppet show yesterday at the Craterian Theater.

I will spare you from knowing how I added insult to injury by dumping curry powder all over my stiff, 40 year-old self this morning.

Instead, I will plug Christy, who has to set aside writing this week to attend the Gun & Knife Trade Show in Las Vegas.

Christy met me yesterday morning (pre-puppet show accident) in pouring rain at the bottom of Lithia Park. We walked ourselves to the top, mulling over the very last part of my Drain revision.

The thing is, I was rehashing all the edits Christy had given me (that I didn't take) a while back when we'd met for tacos. Like a good writing partner, she asked me first what I was thinking, and somehow held back uproarious laughter as I spit out everything about making the conclusion exactly the way she'd suggested.

We walked and talked, then after I hurt myself at the puppet show, I came back and re-wrote the last two pages of my story.

A good writing partner is hard to find. I know it. And I have four of them.

Thank you, Christy. Bring me back a bayonet!

I. Have. An. Agent!

It was the kind of call I'd been hoping and hoping for. She thought the revision was "amazing," the voice, "beautiful," the writing, "rich and deep."

I had to work for it. A few months ago, this agent had given me three big suggestions: make the story seem like it could or could not have actually happened, flush out the male characters and their subplots, make another stab at the overall metaphor. Then see if a new conclusion wrote itself.

And while she was suggesting, (and I was scribbling down every word,) I agreed with everything. The ideas were already flowing.

"Did she tell you to write a new introduction?" my husband asked sceptically.

"No," I told him.

But once I unravelled the whole end, I had to do the beginning over. (I know you know exactly what I mean.)

It was a lot of work. A lot. Hours and hours and hours and hours over days and days and days. While my students' research papers on terrorism were pouring in. While my boys had Fifth Disease. While Daney went on field trips.

I cried to my writing partner, Anjie. "I'm not living," I told her. "This story, it's all I can think about. I'm not a good mom."

"Stay with it," she told me. "Stay in the zone. If you feel the story, you have to go where it takes you."

My kids were understanding. And after a couple months, I was back in Starbucks with my incredible writing group, sharing the last five pages.


I love this agent. I love her. She knew this revision took hours and hours and hours and hours over days and days and days. I confessed that I was able to do it because my unbelievably supportive husband fed me. And shoved me out into the rain to take walks. And started the shower for me when I came back sopping wet and frozen, but ready to write some more.

I love this agent because she gets us writers. Because she says she loves my work. Because she was so right about all those suggestions. Because on top of all that awesomeness, she's a good person.

So there is That Call. From New York City. At six AM.

And it takes everything I'd ever heard it does. Tenacity. Revision. Hard work. Querying.

And patience.

It takes a lot of patience.

But I promise, That Call is so worth every speck of waiting.

What I'm Learning From Reading -- Part 1

I'm smack in the middle of editing and scoring 60 community college critical thinking papers (hence the bloglessness), that are, for the most part, pretty decent.

The topic isn't an easy one, especially for conservative Medford, Oregon: "How have the events of 9/11 shaped or shifted the U.S. perspective on Muslims?"

Yet, the papers--the first of the term--are sophisticated in sentence structure, with questions, semi-colons, participial phrases.

College-level word choice is used.

Usually content is a problem: putting in what's relevant, and keeping out what's not. Hard to do in 5 pages. But it seems less so this time.

Because it's APA, there's an abstract, and a reference page.

It's all definitely not something a student can whip up in an hour.

Most papers are either B-s or Fs.

Here's what's going well: leading into and away from citations, using transitional phrases, integrating implications and interesting introductions, titling the person quoted.

Militant Islam is distinguished from Islam itself.

Conclusions include calls-to-action of examination, understanding, and education.

The pitfalls are what they usually are: connecting introduction to the body, achieving length, citing properly, tightening conclusions.

I try to head off those issues in class, but they seem hard to overcome.

In all, I learn from these. How to be a better teacher. How to be a better writer. How to be a better person.

Most students will put about 10 hours of work into writing these papers.

Between the planning, the prep, the instruction, the grading, me, I'll put in about 60.

The End!

Over the weekend, I drove 700 miles to find my conclusion.

I didn't know what it was, but I knew who had it: my brother-in-law Ryan, a native- New-Yorker-turned-student-teacher who's 36 as of last week.

So I left the kids behind and headed to Buca di Beppo in Sacramento. My sister Erika, my dad, and Ryan all chatted over the Saltimbocca, but I waited a long time for my turn. Because I had a question. When it was my turn, I read the one-sentence summary of my work-in-progress, and I asked how the whole book ends.

Erika and my dad came up with some good stuff, but my eyes were on Ryan. When he sat there, quiet for a full minute, rubbing his chin with his thumb, I knew he was onto something.

And then he laid it all out.

I cried.

I mean, seriously. I seriously cried, and the Bucca staff all came over with cake, clapping and singing "Happy Birthday" to Ryan, and I was bawling, and he sent them away.

I can't tell you the big reason why I was crying yet. But I can tell you the little reason, which is that this was the end! After one year and three different endings, this was it! It sang!

In fact, when I threw the kids and suitcases and Game Boys and iPods back into the car and pretty much flew back to Oregon, I realized that this was what I'd been writing all along.

For two straight days, then, I wrote without stopping. I didn't eat, or sleep, or take phone calls.

And last night, I cried and cried again, as I scribbled out the last three chapters.

Tonight, I brought it to my fabulous writing group. "It's okay if you hate it," I said after reading it aloud. "Because this is it for me. This is the end."

And the end passed. I think I can say it even got some big thumbs-up!

Now, why Ryan?

Why not all my author-friends or friend-friends or family I emailed, begging for help?

Because Ryan has one thing I really lack. Clarity. He can see things clearer more than anyone I know (besides my great man, who gives excellent advice on day-to-day living, not so much literary insight.)

Ryan has the ability of stripping off layers and layers, revealing the essence. Exactly what Drain needed.

So, Ryan, you incredible, smart, authentic guy, next time, the Saltimbocca's on me. That, and the crazy tiramisu.

When Delivery Trumps Plot

What if everything you were fighting for was a lie?

That's the essence of "The Green Zone," a movie in which a US soldier questions the existence of the weapons of mass destruction he's supposed to be finding in Iraq.

Believe it or not, the film reminded me of the book Abundance, a novel about Marie Antoinette.

In both cases, going in to the stories, the audience knows what's going to happen: that no WMD exist, that Antoinette is beheaded. What we don't know is how the plot will get us there.

In both cases, the story is personal. It's credible, compelling, twisty. There's an angle, a question.

Will Saddam's top man meet up with our soldier? Will Antoinette maintain her composure?

What do the characters think? Feel? HOW do they get to their end?

"Titanic" is another good example of predictable conclusion. We know it sinks. What we don't know is when, or why, or how. Or if the two lovers live or die together.

I respect stories that take an audience's common knowledge and add depth and dimension. It can't be easy to pull off. But it sure is fascinating to think about.

Hoping/Helping Readers THINK

The kinds of books I like best are the ones that make me think. They stay with me days after I finish them, lingering like a light mist on an early spring morning.

When I drafted Keeping Stats, a slim, YA boy-book about the downsides of being a high school athlete, it was important to me that readers think about it, as I enjoyed doing with other fiction.

But how could I write a complicated novel that promoted evaluation, in less than 200 pages?

So I read Chris Lynch's Inexcusable, and David Levithan's Love is the Higher Law.

I found that first, complexity was in theme--an original, abstruse, contemporary theme--and that theme could be shown in the main character's actions, reactions, thoughts, and dialogue.

Second, the MC had to wrestle with an intricate, intrinsic conflict. Which isn't all fixed at the end. So the reader has to do the work. There would be choice. Would the reader agree? Disagree? Understand?

How would the reader feel?

There would be questions--that the MC asks, that other characters ask of him, and that don't go completely answered. The conclusion wouldn't tie everything up, but would end with an implied projection, or another question, or a scene that would lead to the reader's assumption.

Next, the MC's voice would be unreliable. The reader would have to weigh the validity of the MC's narration to find his/her own truth. Which could be done through dialogue.

And finally, it had to have irony. The trick of all tricks, right?

In drafting Keeping Stats, I came across many more questions about writing than answers.

Does length affect depth?

Do certain genres lend themselves to more critical thinking? Or can any genre provide that possibility?

Do readers want to think? Or would they rather have the writer think for them?

And, is this thing GOING TO GET PUBLISHED???

Love and David Levithan

David Levithan strolled into A Children's Place bookshop in Portland with a blue backpack strapped to his back, and shoes that were nice, but which had pounded a lot of pavement.

He talked mostly about the World Trade Center memorial lights: how he had first seen them while driving back from the airport after flying in from London, how they illuminate the city during the anniversary of 9/11.

He said that Claire's pilgrimage mirrors his own, that she was the character hit hardest by the tragedy. The passage Levithan chose to read was "The Lights," narrated by Claire.

He explained the reason his climatic scene starts in the first chapter.

There were no books to buy; the store had run out before the visit began. But Levithan, in his well-ironed shirt, was unruffled; he crammed wisdom and his autograph onto skinny strips of stickers.

And he gave me a CD of songs he had made. I listened to it all the way home, partial to tracks 4, 6, and 10.

Before I left, though, I had asked Levithan about the conclusion. I teach my college students there are only so many kinds, I said, and I've tried and I've tried, but I can't figure this one out.

That's because there is no real end, he told me, It's like the tragedy itself; it's just not all wrapped up.

Then he put his arm around my daughter for a picture, and I thought, this man is love. He writes about love and he talks about love and he walks love, walks it right in those nice but well-worn shoes.

The End

This is it.

Right after I post this, I'm hitting the MS one more time. To clean things up, make sure it all makes sense. Triple sure.

It's funny. I had gotten hung up on conclusion. The thing I hit really hard with my writing students. And I couldn't come up with squat.

But a couple of weeks ago, I remembered the list of the only 8 or 9 kinds of conclusions in the world. And I tied a few of them together, and came up with a string of three words. A question.

And I've tried it out on a few readers, and the answer can go either way.

Even though I know the truth.