Category Archives: fiction

Novel, Memoir, or Biography?

by
Sandy Tritt

Confused about the differences between a novel, a memoir, and a biography? Maybe we can help clear up the mystery. 

First, a memoir and a biography are both true accounts based upon what happened to a person. A biography is a history of a person. It tells when he was born and to whom, what happened in his childhood, and discusses every major event in his life. If a person writes a biography about himself, it’s called an autobiography.

A memoir, on the other hand, focuses on one aspect of a person’s life, such as his struggle with alcoholism or his quest to become President. Whereas a biography gives facts and is generally written as a narrative, a memoir is considered creative nonfiction and reads more like a novel, which is fiction (made up).

Both memoir and novel use scenes to act out the story with dialogue and action instead of simply telling what happened.

Even though a memoir is considered a true story, it is impossible for most humans to remember verbatim every word spoken throughout their lives. Therefore, the most important thing is that the memoir recreate the emotional honesty of conversations and situations. It is permissible to make up the actual words spoken.

It is also permissible to change the names and descriptions of the people you want to include in your memoir. If you do this, you should put a disclaimer on your copyright page stating that “names and/or likenesses have been changed for privacy.” However, if your memoir reveals unflattering things about a person who is still alive (or who still has close family), you may want to consult an attorney before publishing. As a general rule, if someone is a celebrity, you may mention his or her name and reveal something about him as long as it’s true or reflects positively on him. If a person is not a celebrity, you may not use his name or likeness without his written permission because a non-celebrity has a right to privacy.

If you think you cannot tell your full story for fear of retribution or embarrassment or a lawsuit, you may want to fictionalize your story. This gives you more leeway in telling your story. You can add in situations that did not actually occur or you can add in people who did not actually live. You simply write a novel—which is defined as fictitious prose—instead of a memoir. As long as it still reveals the emotional truth of your situation, you can claim it is “based upon a true story.”

If you aren’t certain how to move forward, email me at IFWeditors@gmail.com to schedule a complimentary 30-minute telephone or Skype conversation to discuss how you can best present your story. We’re always here to help.

The Secret to Using Flashbacks

by
Sandy Tritt
 

As writers, we have many tools (or devices) available to us. These devices allow us to do things a normal human cannot do, such as travel in time, know what characters are thinking, and hop from one location to another. However, if we indiscriminately used all the tools all the time, our readers would be so confused they wouldn’t be able to follow the story. Therefore, we try very hard to follow the action line of our story chronologically, revealing what happens in the sequence in which it occurred. We also try to stay with just one character’s thoughts at a time (our viewpoint character), and we limit each scene to one location (unless the viewpoint character is in motion, in which we move with the viewpoint character).

However, there are times when we need to give background information about a character—and there are times when we need to act out that background information. This acting out of something that happened in the past is called a flashback. Since flashbacks interrupt the current action of the story, we must always weigh the advantages against the disadvantages. Are the benefits we receive (a glimpse into a character’s past) worth leaving our characters dangling in time while we go into the past? If so, don’t hesitate to use a flashback. If not, continue with your storyline and find other ways, such as exposition, discussion, etc., to entwine the past with the present.

If you choose to use a flashback, you must follow the secret, unwritten rules by doing two things that will tip the reader that you are leaving the present. First, you must provide a transition statement, such as, “John remembered the day his father died.” Second, you must shift your current story tense to a more distant tense. For example, if your main storyline is in present tense, you’ll need to slip into past tense for the flashback. However, if your main storyline is already in past tense, you’ll need to use past perfect tense (“had”) once or twice. Do note that if your main storyline is in present tense, you should present the entire flashback in past tense. However, if your main storyline is in past tense, you should only use past perfect once or twice. That’s enough to clue your reader that you’re going further in the past, and, by then reverting back to simple past tense, you avoid the clumsiness of remaining in past perfect. 

This combination of transition and tense switch is what lets the reader know they have stepped into the past. So, your job now is to act out the flashback scene with action and dialogue, and, when you are finished, clue the reader that you are returning to the present by using past perfect once or twice (if your main storyline is in past tense). Then, revert to your normal tense, and, if necessary, include another transition sentence (“But that was then and this was now, and John had to let the past stay in the past.”) that further clues the reader the flashback has ended. Here is an example:

            Danny remembered more about his mother’s death than he’d ever told anyone. The day she had died, she had called each of her sons to her bedside individually.
            “Pour me a cup of fresh water, please,” she said, her voice thick with the Polish accent that decorated her words when she was tired or sick.
            Danny filled the cup, careful not to splash it on the bedside table.
            “Now, hand me my lipstick.”
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            “Be good,” she finally whispered, her voice raspy.
            He went to the door, started out, then stopped and turned around. His mother tapped several tiny white pills from the lipstick case and shoved them into her mouth. She gulped water, then dumped more pills into her palm and swallowed them. Three more times, she had repeated the process.
            Even now, Danny felt responsible for her death. He looked at his father and swallowed hard . . .
 
As with all devices, it’s imperative you don’t overuse flashbacks. They are spices to be sprinkled lightly, used only when absolutely needed.
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Let’s Talk Dirty

by
Charlotte Firbank-King


We can whisper about swearing and sex—or we can just say it—SEX!

I’m all about telling it as it is—as your characters experience it—with some consideration for your audience.

First, let’s talk about swearing.

If you’re writing a story about soldiers or cops, you want to make it real, make it come alive. You as a person may not like swearing, but the characters you write about are not you—so keep them in character. I was married to a cop, so I know they swear like troopers and string together sentences with curse words. I don’t suggest that you write exactly the way they speak, but if you want your fiction to appear authentic, you’ll need a good peppering of curses—and I don’t mean limp expletives like, “You miserable so-and-so/cad/villain,” or any other curse fit for a children’s chapter book. For example, if a writer writes about child abuse, the cop investigating the case is not going to call the abuser a “cad” or a “misfit.” The officer will undoubtedly refer to the transgressor by using some very colorful expletives.

However, if we use the amount of profanity used by certain groups of people, it becomes ridiculous and the reader loses interest in the story. Therefore, we need to flavor our fiction with the language our characters use, but not overwhelm it.

Another consideration for the amount of profanity to be used is the intended audience. If we are writing children’s books, then no amount of profanity is allowed. Same with inspirational. However, things change with the Young Adult Genre. We sometimes think YA books—which loosely serves older teens and younger twenties—should meet the approval of the Pope. Think again. This age group, perhaps more than any other, wants to keep it “real.” 

Then there is sex. You as a person may not be promiscuous, but what if your character is? How much sex is enough? How much is too much? Again, the answer depends upon your genre and your audience. In Inspirational Romance, we are never privy to sex scenes, but we may see a baby pop out after our romantic couple are suitably wed. Therefore, if you write Christian fiction, keep it chaste. However, if you write erotica, like Fifty Shades of Grey, turn it loose and lurid. Like with cursing, many writers rip the ring out of it and shove sex in your face in the crudest possible way—but be forewarned, the shock tactic will fail with overuse. Allow sex scenes to flavor the story, not overwhelm it. 

But what if your writing falls somewhere between? There are innumerable ways of writing about sex that is tasteful. This means using grown-up words for body parts and avoiding the use of euphemisms.

Please note: Rape is not sex. Rape is a violent act that is not beautiful and nothing can make it okay, so don’t skirt around it and pretend it isn’t the horror that it is. Do not glorify it. Make it real. 

We live in an age in which almost anything goes, especially where violence, sex, and swearing is concerned. A writer’s job is to make it real whilst not grossing readers out completely. It’s important to “write true and truthfully for your genre.”

Even Shakespeare swore—like, “A pox on you.” A pox, in this case, refers to a venereal disease, so for those days, that was a pretty severe oath. The use of “God” was strictly forbidden, so he said ‘sblood—God’s blood or ‘sdeath—God’s death and so on. But swear he did—to the extent of what was permitted during his time.

So, first, know your audience and write for that audience. Then, second, keep it real. Like everything in writing, too much is as boring as too little. Don’t write violence for violence’s sake, but use it truthfully, if it really belongs in a story. The same is true for sex and profanity. As with all the other seasonings of fiction, sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle.

Concoctastory

by
Charlotte Firbank-King
 
Concoctastory 

(Bet that had you running to the dictionary.)

This is how we “concoctastory.” Open a file called Story Outline.

First thing:

In the actual manuscript:

Under “Chapter 1,” I put in the era or year and location of the story in italics. It just grounds the reader, lets them know where they are. But that’s me and it isn’t imperative.

In the Story Outline file:

Put in the date you start the story, for your own interest. 

Give a brief outline of the story for your own benefit, but this will probably change dramatically. 

Next headings:

1) Names and details:

In the View tool, I tick the Navigation Pane, then go to the Paragraph tool under General, find Outline Level, and click on the down arrow—it will open up options. I always use Level 1 for chapter heading in the manuscript and various headings in the Story Outline for easy access. The first heading would be Brief Synopsis. Be sure to change it back to Body Text in the paragraph tool before going to the next line, or you’ll have a million headings.

Name of hero and heroine—hair and eye color, height, build, defining features, age marks, scars, deformities, habits, twitches, tastes, occupation, likes, dislikes, traits—good and bad—ambitions, goals, obsessions, status in society, domicile, marital status, siblings, parents, etc.

In fact, anything you may need to remember as the story unfolds. Many of these details will change as time goes on, but the physical traits will probably remain the same. 

If you name specific details about buildings, furniture, or other setting items, list them here.  If they are mentioned again, you don’t want a purple building or chair to be pink later in the story.

As you write, add each character’s name and physical appearance. One may start off with a cast of characters, but the story may need a new character. It’s all too easy to forget that Joe had cerulean blue eyes. One often errs and gives characters brown or green eyes later in the book.

Minor characters, like a barmaid or footman, don’t need a name if they only make one or two appearances. In fact, it’s better to keep names to a minimum. Only add a description if you gave them a specific thing like eye or hair color, a squint or limp favoring the left leg—you don’t want them favoring the right leg at another point.

The names of ships, streets, buildings and places must also go into this file as they crop up in the story.

Make a note of things like Elvis borrowed $50,000 from Danny the hobo. Or he gave Leonardo da Vinci a $1 tip for opening his chariot door.

Be careful to keep names varied—don’t have Joe in love, working with or related to Jasmine, or worse, Josephine.

2) List of possible names:

Make a list of cool names for male and female people, dogs, cats, horses or any animal names. I make a habit of putting the list in alphabetical order and use only one letter per memorable character—lesser characters aren’t important, unless their relationship is too close to the character they interact with.

3) Publishing details:

The author bio, query, synopsis, letters for agents/publishers, plus back cover blurb and tagline. Or you can put them in a new file, then make a folder with the book title.

4) Background info:

Almost all stories need research. Put the books used or where you found it on the Internet or the person who gave you the info. You may need to go back and check something. I have a separate file with all research relating to that story, then put it in the folder mentioned above if I copy and paste from the Internet. 

You would be amazed at how many ideas come to you as you research.

Writing needs preparation like anything in life. There is only one problem: a story can take on a life of its own and change direction—just go with the flow, be sure to change things in the Story Outline if you alter something. 

Above all, let the creative juices flow and enjoy the ride.

Tying Up Loose Ends

by Jessica Nelson
I woke up the other morning with an irresistible urge to watch Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. So I did.
 

I’m sitting there on the couch, singing along blissfully to one of my favorite animated movies, when I reach this scene. If you are a marketer then you can also read about 3d animation as it is a cost effective method.Well, do you need 3d rendering for your next project? hop over here.

Look familiar? If you can’t place it, it’s from the beginning of the song “Great Wide Somewhere,” right after Gaston proposes marriage to Belle.
I get to this scene, and the most seemingly random thought strikes me that I haven’t been able to shake ever since.
What ever happened to those farm animals?
Who took care of them while Belle was with the Beast, and Maurice was lost in the woods? When Belle and her father moved into the castle, did they sell the farm or bring their goats and chickens with them?
Like I said, seemingly random and probably unimportant—unless you’re a writer. Those animals are a loose end, an unresolved conflict. An astute reader—or in this case, viewer—will get to the end of the book and wonder about all those loose ends.
In writing, every word, every event, every character—even nameless farm animals—must somehow move the story forward. In this scene, are the animals necessary? They give Belle an audience for her lyrical ranting, but other than that, they serve no purpose—and they create a loose end.
We tend to add things to scenes to dress them up. Things that, at the time, make sense. However, we need to be careful we’re not accidentally adding a subplot that we have no intention of coming back to. When everything is said and done, and our precious paper-baby is all ready to go out into the world, we need to re-read every scene and make sure that everything in it serves a purpose and every conflict introduced is resolved.
Did you write a spy novel in which your character had to steal top-secret files for the CIA, then was chased all over the world before he finally realized he wanted nothing more than a quiet family life with the Arabian beauty who helped him allude the Russians out to kill him? Great! I’d love to read it. But one question: what happened to the files? Did he ever turn them in to his supervisor?
Did you open your paranormal romance with a girl walking home from a birthday celebration at a nightclub with her best friends before she was attacked by vampires? Again, I’d love to read it. But what about the best friends? Do they ever call her? Stop by her place to make sure she’s okay? Call the police when a week passes and no one has seen hide nor hair of her? If they don’t do any of those things, 1.) they are poor excuses for best friends, and 2.) they are a loose end.
If you’re feeling tangled up in loose ends, an editor is a wonderful ally to help you get untangled and tie your loose ends in perfect little bows.
 
 
Beauty and the Beast is an original Disney film. All characters from the movie belong to Disney. The image used was taken from Google Images.

Make up Your Own Mind: Letting the Reader Write

 by
Rhonda Browning White

During my MFA days, I kept a journal of important suggestions and bits of advice passed down to me by professors, instructors, visiting writers and my cohorts; epiphanies, ah-ha moments, words to live by, definitely words to write by. I still turn to these one-liners, these brief explanations, these light-bulb statements that point me in the right direction when I feel lost or need inspiration. One such statement came from my mentor, author Robert Olmstead, who said to my workshop peers and me, “It’s not about what you write, it’s what you don’t write. Make the reader do some of the writing. Invoke, invoke, invoke. Make the reader conjoin A and C. Leave out B. Don’t burn words.”

For years, I’d spelled out everything for the reader. I wanted her to understand. I wanted to explain. Suddenly I realized that the best fiction—stories I love and re-read, are the stories that allow me to draw my own conclusions. And sometimes, in the re-reading, my opinion and conclusion changes. These stories become, for me, timeless.

Since then, I’ve sought short stories in which the narrative and its elements are not spoon-fed to us, stories where we are allowed to develop a relationship with the characters and draw reflective meaning from their experiences. Here are two examples I’ve found in The Best American Short Stories 2010, which we can examine and learn from to prevent ourselves from burning words.

In her story “All Boy,” Lori Ostlund writes of Harold, a studious and introverted child who is audience to the breakdown of his parents’ marriage (Ostlund 263-78). His father is gay. We know, without being specifically told, that Harold’s mother fears their son may have homosexual tendencies, so she protects him from being ostracized by teachers and classmates by telling them, “I guess Harold’s just all boy” (Ostlund 275). Ostlund never points out these things directly, but lets the reader reach this conclusion and determine for herself if Harold’s mother is in denial of her husband’s and son’s tendencies, or if she’s merely operating in the protective role of mother. Ostlund never tells us until the last paragraphs that Harold’s father is gay. We are allowed to experience this revelation as Harold experienced it; gradually, by applying our own knowledge and societal frames of reference to what is taking place. We experience for ourselves what Harold is thinking and feeling, so much so that at the end of the story, we want to usher him back into the safety of the womb-like closet, where he is protected from the harsh realities of the world.

We suspect from the opening line of Tea Obreht’s “The Laugh” that the darkest part of the story is over. “They were talking about the funeral when the lights went out” (Obreht 246). Still, suspense builds throughout as we learn that Neal, our narrator, feels guilty over some instance that occurred between him and best friend Roland’s late wife, Femi. He loved her, I inferred, though no steamy affair ever made print. Throughout the story, Neal does everything he can to protect Roland; physically, when he follows him into a pack of wildebeests without a loaded gun; and emotionally, when he places heavy sacks of flour into Femi’s empty casket to keep Roland from discovering that hyenas stole her body. Neal came face-to-face with one of these hyenas, though a pane of glass separated them. But the hyenas’ laugh, not their vile golden eyes, was what tormented him. “It was the laugh that made his stomach turn, and they laughed all the time, every night they were there, as if they knew their laugh made him wonder, made him want to come outside to them in the dark, or, otherwise, put a gun in his mouth” (Obreht 257). Yet, when the story ends, it isn’t the hyenas’ laugh that haunts him, it is Femi’s laugh. Again, the reader is left to her own inference, her own conclusion, based on her knowledge—not of hyenas, but of humans and human nature.

It is what we leave out, then, not what we put into a story, that provides the reader with a satisfying, poignant or devastating twist. Leave out the B parts. Let your reader reveal what has been hidden, let him write what is missing.

Works Cited

Obreht, Tea. “The Laugh.” Russo 246-62.
Ostlund, Lori. “All Boy.” Russo 263-278.
Russo, Richard, ed. Introduction. The Best American Short Stories 2010. New York:
          Houghton, 2010. Print.

Reprinted with permission of the author and Why The Writing Works http://whythewritingworks.com/2013/12/03/make-up-your-own-mind-letting-the-reader-write/

Children’s Books: The Art of Writing with Illustrations

by Charlotte Firbank-King
Storytelling is a passion, even obsession. It is deeply satisfying to captivate an audience with drama, pathos, violence, tranquility or fantasy—to be the master of imaginary characters. Above all, writers aim to please their readers (after listening to editors’ suggestions and working with them to succeed).
Unfortunately, this is not always true concerning book illustrations. Many authors seem to think that once the story is written, that’s it. They adopt a careless attitude, choosing an art style that only suits them. Art is subjective, so beware of falling into this mold.
Kids love color, yet we see illustrations in children’s books executed in quick pencil sketches. Why is that? The usual reason is simple. It’s cheaper to commission an artist to do pencil sketches rather than a complex work in acrylic, oils, pastel or gouache. Watercolors are also beautiful, especially when combined with ink. But with children, I want to stress that illustrations must have impact and instant appeal. Kids form a huge section of the reading audience. Even toddlers will roam bookshelves and choose what they want. It’s critically important to make sure the illustrations in your book stand out among millions of others.
Simplicity has its place, but as with brevity of words, the drawing must be brilliant in its economy. One does not get brilliant when the artist is paid little and required to dash off a dozen pictures. I urge writers of this genre to spend the extra money—or have fewer illustrations. Don’t sacrifice quality for quantity. A children’s book may be well written, but if the illustrations are mediocre or slapdash, the book will NOT sell well. In fact, illustrations are the “hook,” and then the story captivates, but the two must marry
Adults or young adults generally don’t want illustrations of what heroes or villains look like. They want to form their own picture. Small children, however, want to know what characters look like. Their imagination skills are still developing. But be very aware when deciding how the characters will be portrayed. Violence or overt evil should not be illustrated. Kids may have nightmares if that is the last thing they see before going to sleep. In short, be sensitive to young minds.
Here’s something else to think about. When a parent reads to a child, the child typically sits next to him or her, on the left or right. If the illustrations are sometimes on the left and sometimes on the right, the child is jumping up and down, running or crawling from one side to the other. But if the illustrations are always on the left or always on the right, the child gets to enjoy the illustrations without running back and forth.
When it’s impossible to pay the price for quality color illustrations, consider having the artist illustrate the story in pen (not a pencil sketch). The child can then color the pictures so he can choose how he wants his imaginary world to look. Coloring in is an abiding pleasure for kids and gives free-rein to their imaginations.
And finally, always test illustrations by showing them to kids before publishing—they will be your best and most honest critics.
(c) 2013 Charlotte Firbank-King. All Rights Reserved. 
Charlotte Firbank-King is a writer, editor, and artist. Her paintings have been sold and exhibited throughout the world and have been commissioned by the Johannesburg Zoo, the Witwatersrand National Botancial Gardens and the Zulu Schools Trust, among others. 

Beginnings

  By Rhonda Browning White
        
“Begin at the beginning,” the King said, very gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” –Lewis Carroll, from Alice in Wonderland
            Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? If only that were the case! In truth, the beginning of any essay, story or memoir is often the most crucial part. It’s the part that causes a reader to decide whether to keep going, or to toss the book into a “not for me” pile and move on to the next one on the shelf. Fortunately, with a little work, you can write a strong beginning for your story that will hook a reader and keep her turning pages. Here’s how:
  • Don’t censor your first draft. The first draft of your story isn’t the time for revision. Let the ideas flow, let your characters chatter and discover themselves, explore the scenery around them, let the story surprise you. If it surprises you, chances are good it will surprise the reader, as well. There will be plenty of time for revision later.
  • Once you have finished your first draft, study the ending. The ending of your story should be evident in the beginning. Now I don’t mean that you should ruin the plot by telling how the story ends on the first page, but there should be enough foreshadowing, enough intimation, and enough clues to intrigue and to create a feeling of satisfaction when the reader reaches the last page.
  • Introduce tension on the first page. There must be yearning. What does your character want that she cannot have? Make sure your story raises important questions; the how, who, where, why and what of your plot. Create tension by introducing internal conflict (what’s happening inside the character’s mind) and external conflict (the big problem that is happening around them). By introducing tension early on, we motivate characters to act, and we motivate readers to keep reading.
  • Set the scene. Tell us where we are in place and time. Let us see the location through the eyes of your main character. I don’t mean describe the color of the wallpaper, the style of the draperies, the method of upholstery and texture of carpeting—unless these play an important part in the plot of your story. When you describe a setting, describe it as your character might. For example, an architect might describe a horizon as a level foundation, while a tailor might describe it as a smooth seam.
  • Introduce the character. Give us a sense of the character’s voice. Does he speak in lofty terms, or does he use colloquialisms? What does he look like? More importantly, how does he see the people and the world around him? Dig deep into your protagonist’s thoughts to reveal character and emotion.

If you’ve included each of these elements in your first scene—preferably on your first page—then you have a solid story beginning. You’ve asked questions that the reader will want answered. You’ve piqued interest. You’ve created a character that is anything but cliché. Congratulations! You’ve crafted an excellent beginning!  

Deadly Sin Three: Passivity

Passivity is what lulls our readers to sleep—no matter how exciting our story. Here are some ways to get rid of this deadly sin.

PASSIVE SENTENCE CONSTRUCTION. Construct sentences so the subject performs the action instead of having an action performed upon the subject. This means the actor (subject) is mentioned before the action (verb), not after. Sentences that begin with “there are,” “there is,” “there was,” or “there were” are always passive. Get rid of them.

Passive: Sleeping was used by the writer to prevent exhaustion.
Active: The writer slept to prevent exhaustion.
Better: The writer slept.

Passive: A book is read by the student.
Active: The student reads a book.

Passive: There were three people in the grocery line.
Active: Three people waited in the grocery line.

PASSIVE VERBS. Watch for passive verbs, such as was, is, were, are, had, am, and so forth. Replace them with active verbs, the most active and descriptive words you can think of. Your prose will come to life.

PRESENT PARTICIPLES. Verbs ending with “ing” (and requiring a helping verb) are by nature more passive than those ending with “ed.”

Bad: She was eating breakfast.
Good: She ate eggs and toast. (Specifics never hurt!)

BONUS TIP: If you’re using a “helping” verb (was, were, is, are) there’s a good chance you’re passive.

BONUS TIP: Never start a sentence with “there was” or “there are” or any variation of these.

(c) 2008 Inspiration for Writers, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

My First Semester in an MFA Writing Program

by Rhonda Browning White

I had no idea what to expect when I arrived on the idyllic campus of Converse College for my first semester in their MFA in Creative Writing Program. I was nervous about meeting my dorm-mate (Me? Staying in a dorm? With a total stranger? At my age?), who turned out to be a spectacular poet, mother and now my sweet friend. I wondered if I’d be accepted among a group of sixty students, forty-five of whom already had a history together, or if the professors and visiting authors would look down from their lofty positions as they berate my writing. After all, these people were real writers—authors whose names I recognized, whose novels and poetry collections sit on my bookshelves even now.

I needn’t have worried.


These same instructors and brilliant students are now my friends: we touch base via email, follow each other’s daily lives on Facebook, share links to interesting blog links and sometimes chat on the phone about everything from a class assignment to a great novel we’ve read to a recipe you’ve just got to try!


But what is a low-residency program, and what do you do in it, I’m often asked. Well I can’t speak for all of them, but I can tell you about mine. Here’s a typical day in the life of a Converse low-res student:


Breakfast in the dining hall (surprisingly yummy food), begins at seven and lasts until nine, and you are welcome at a table with your cohorts, or you might want to sit with a professor or a visiting author to chat about, oh, anything.


Before the first session of the day begins following breakfast, students can attend one-on-one meetings with their faculty mentor to discuss the semester syllabus, to brainstorm about a current project, or to chat about suggestions for their reading list. On some days, student group meetings are held in this time frame, as well. If students don’t have a scheduled meeting, they’ll often use this for a leisurely chat over coffee, free writing time, strolling the campus grounds (beautiful gardens, impressive statuary and quiet nooks for settling in with a good book).


The day’s first craft lecture follows. Doesn’t this sound boring? I mean, come on, a craft lecture? Let me tell you, these things are amazing! This semester, Dan Wakefield taught us using his late friend Kurt Vonnegut’s fiction, authors Leslie Pietrzyk (my mentor this semester—Yay!) and Marlin Barton gave inspiring lectures on story beginnings and using violence in fiction, and national bestselling author Robert Olmstead lectured on how characters’ thoughts can change the whole direction of a story. Powerful stuff, and these were only a few of the fiction lectures! “But wait,” you say, “do you mean you studied things other than fiction in a fiction program?” Absolutely! One of the reasons I chose Converse is that students are encouraged to attend lectures by professors outside their primary genre. Not only does this present inspiration in directions you might not have considered, but it provides a broader scope should you decide to teach in the future. Hence, I enjoyed seminars by phenomenal poets Denise Duhamel, Suzanne Cleary and Albert Goldbarth. I also benefited from seminars, lectures and readings by guest faculty and speakers, including Brock Clarke and Marshall Jon Fisher and faculty Susan Tekulve and our amazing program director Rick Mulkey.


A leisurely two-hour lunch followed each day’s first seminar, when you’d hear chatter and laughter throughout the dining hall and across the campus as new relationships budded and old friendships grew fonder. Of course, some of this two-hour period was usually spent writing or reading, digesting not only dessert but the instruction and information we’d received in our day’s first lecture.


A walk in the sun across the campus green led us to our afternoon workshop. Workshops are broken into genre—fiction, non-fiction and poetry—and each workshop includes only five to ten students and one or two professors in a roundtable setting. It’s here where the real work occurs, where students watch their skills grow like magic and their writing improve before their eyes. No kidding. I’m still amazed at how much better my writing was on the last day as compared to the first day. Not only were we instructed in methods to improve our work, but we applied those things to our writing and discussed what worked and what didn’t. Workshops were very “hands on,” and over the course of the residency, each student had an hour’s discussion and constructive critique of their own work by the workshop instructors and fellow students. Instructors welcomed our questions and encouraged each student to offer feedback and share their opinions of the selections we read and the writing exercises we completed.


A second stimulating lecture period followed our craft workshop. Some days, these periods consisted of events like a panel discussion of authors or even a sit-down Q & A with Algonquin Publishing’s Executive Editor Chuck Adams. Receiving this kind of insight into the world of publishing is critically advantageous to a developing author’s success and, as students, we were ever aware that we were being provided a “secret map” that will guide us through the tangled jungle of submission and publication.


Dinner (and more laughter) follows this last lecture of the day, then we’re treated to an hour of guest speaker, faculty or student readings. The readings are casual and comfortable, and some of the stories and poems shared take us from hilarity to tears and back again. The night’s readings end with a social hour, which tends to morph into social hours. As our ten-day residency progressed, these social gatherings grew longer as our conversations grew deeper and our friendships became stronger. A few at a time, students and faculty disbursed to grab a snack, study, write, or do a load of laundry. The common areas of the dorm (usually the veranda) always remained a social meeting place, however, even into the wee hours. Get an idea you need to bounce off someone? Head to the veranda. Can’t think of a word you need to complete a rhyme in your sestina? Head to the veranda. Can’t finish your bag of popcorn? Don’t worry, your friends on the veranda will devour it for you. Eventually—sometimes as the sky begins to brighten again—the rocking chairs slow, and the last few upright writers head to their beds and dream of new stories before time to rise and do it all again.


Too soon, our residency ended, but the flame of passion for writing still burns strong as each of us work from home to complete our semester assignments. We study the novels and books on our individualized reading lists. We write critical theory papers about what we’ve read, discerning what works and what doesn’t in those stories, and deciding what we’ve learned that we can apply to our own writing. We also write our own stories or essays or poems—creating packets that we’ll send to our mentor every three or four weeks. We stay in touch with our mentors and our cohorts, and always, we look forward to the next semester, when we’ll be together with our like-minded, creative family at Converse.