PLEASE TRANSFER YOUR AFFECTIONS (AND LINKS) TO MY NEW BLOG: Slushpile Avalanche
With apologies to my writer friends who, I'm sure, will find a plethora of writerly errors in this first-draft manuscript, [but, DANG! I got it done in time for Christmas!] I offer my annual Christmas story.
Christmas at Valley Forge, 1777
By Suzanne Vincent
Snow fell at Valley Forge that Christmas Day.
By all apparent measures, but for the new snow, the day would be no different from the one before. Men still worked at hewing trees to build winter huts and provide firewood for the hundreds of campfires around which other sicker, weaker men huddled. The commissary still warned of perilous shortages--only 24 barrels of flour remained to feed 11,000 men and boys with no promise of supplies to come. Graves still needed digging to bury the men who had died during the night.
General Washington knew all this, as he knew every detail of the camp and the men who wintered there. The morning had seen a constant stream of Colonels and Captains coming to the command tent to report the day's conditions to him, of patrols reporting the doings of the British army, of camp doctors reporting the tolls cold and illness continued to take on the Continental army.
Near midday he refused an offered portion of gruel seasoned with a few precious grains of cracked pepper, and called an aide to his side.
"Mr. Tilghman," he said, "I wish to draft a letter to Congress."
Mr. Tilghman, as always, responded promptly, gathered paper, quills, and penknife, retrieved the bottle of ink he kept in his breast pocket to prevent it freezing, poured some ink into the inkwell, and sat at the small desk kept in the tent for this very purpose, the desk at which he had transcribed dozens of letters for the General. He expected, after the morning's grim news, that he would be sending yet another plea for food and blankets, shoes for men with nothing but rags wrapped around half-frozen feet, fodder for starving horses.
"I am ready, General," he said, his pen poised over the inkwell.
Washington did not immediately begin. He stood beside Tilghman, looking down at the empty page. He placed a long-fingered hand on Tilghman's shoulder.
"You should know," he said, "you will be transcribing my resignation."
Mr. Tilghman looked into the General's eyes. He saw nothing but weariness there and knew its source. Tilghman, one of three aides-de-camp to General Washington that December of 1777 and a member of the General's military 'family,' had seen what few others had seen. He had seen the grief and rage and tears shed for the men who had left bloody footprints on the road that climbed the hill to the Valley Forge plateau on which their camp stood, for the threats of desertion and mutiny which he could blame no one for, for the men who hungered and suffered from cold and illness with no food or coats or medicines to ease their distresses. Tilghman knew also that, were it left to him, he would have resigned long before now.
But it was not left to him. It was left to Washington, and Tilghman believed, as many others did not, that if Washington could not succeed in the cause of liberty, no one could.
"Then, it is over," he said.
Washington pulled a chair close and sat heavily in it. "I do not see how it can be otherwise," he said. "It is Christmas Day, and while our congressmen feast on goose and plum pudding and sleep in their feathered beds, the men entrusted with securing the liberty they crave starve on this God-forsaken hill." He hunched over and rested his head in his hands. "I save myself by resigning, Mr. Tilghman. It seems a conceit for me to do so, but I cannot observe the suffering of my men one more day. I sell my soul to save it."
Mr. Tilghman nodded. "I understand, Sir."
The General sat up and looked Mr. Tilghman in the eye. "I knew you would," he said. "Which is why I gave this unhappy task to you. I beg your forgiveness, Tench."
"There is nothing to forgive, General," he said.
Washington nodded and frowned. "Then we shall begin."
Tilghman dipped his pen and held it at the ready. Washington spoke.
"Addressed to Henry Laurens, President, Continental Congress, United States. Dear Mr. Laurens..."
For more than an hour, Mr. Tilghman's pen scratched gently on the paper as the General spoke, interrupted only occasionally by messengers reporting conditions, or officers bringing information from the British lines, or Tilghman's own need to cut a new nib on an overused quill. With each interruption Washington's resolve seemed to Tilghman to weaken. He paused longer before proceeding, spoke more slowly when he did. All the while the snow fell, hissing faintly on the roof and walls of the tent.
As the short midwinter day began to subside, a disturbance arose in the camp. Shouts could be heard, calls and whistles.
General Washington rose, his face pale, and went to the tent door where a guard always stood. Tilghman heard the General speaking, sending the guard off to discover the cause of it then turning to his bed where his coat and hat and gloves lay.
"Your Excellency?" Mr. Tilghman said as the General began to dress.
"We've heard rumors of mutiny for some time, Mr. Tilghman," the General said. "I fear it has finally come to that."
Tilghman abandoned his inks and pens and reached for his own coat and gloves. Without waiting for the guard to return, they walked out into the sea of tents, Tilghman jogging to keep up with Washington's long energetic stride, following the noise to its source.
There, greatly to the surprise of Tilghman and Washington, they found men gathered around a large fire, stirring a pot of something boiling thickly and singing. One among them spotted the General and called out to him in a cheerful voice:
"Hail to our Chief!"
A chorus of voices joined his:
"Good Christmas, General! May God grant that Liberty prevail! Long live the United States!"
General Washington, wide-eyed with astonishment, stuttered his own greetings of Good Christmas, and God Bless, then strode on to the next fireside where he found conditions nearly identical to the last. And the next fireside, and the next.
At one fire he waved down the chorus of good cheer and asked, "Have you not suffered enough?"
A lieutenant, his head wrapped in a tattered scarf, responded: “Having come this far," he said, "we can but go the rest of the distance. With you to lead us, we can’t lose!”
Tilghman followed on as Washington completed a round of the camp. Nowhere did they find the expected misery and mutiny. Instead they found carols of Christmas and an air of celebration. With dark descending, and the night's cold with it, the General finally made his way to the command tent. He spoke not a word, but went in, picked up the letter that lay undisturbed on Mr. Tilghman's desk, folded it once and handed it to Tilghman.
"Burn it, Mr. Tilghman," he said, "then see that I'm left alone for a time, will you?"
Mr. Tilghman folded the letter again and tucked it into his breast pocket, then helped the General with his coat and hat, then turned to exit the tent again. As he did, he glanced one last time at Mr. Washington, and saw the General lowering himself to his knees.
Outside, Mr. Tilghman gave orders to the guard to see that the General was not disturbed, then started off toward the nearest fire, joining in on the song. "Noel, Noel, Born is the King of Israel."
END
NOTE: As far as I have been able to discern, the historical information in this story is factually correct. The Continental Army arrived at Valley Forge on December 19th, 1777. Most would still be in tents, with little time or able-bodied manpower to have made much progress building the 12' by 16' winter huts Washington had ordered. The General, in empathy with his troops, remained in a tent himself until most of the huts had been completed some weeks later. Tench Tilghman was, in fact, an aide-de-camp of General Washington's at Valley Forge that Christmas and would have been as likely as any of the other two then serving to have transcribed the letter he began to Congress. I suspect Washington might not have chosen Col. Robert Henry Harrison, as Harrison suffered from chronic illness; or that he would have chosen John Laurens to whose father (then President of Congress Henry Laurens) the letter may very well have been addressed.
Washington wasted no time seeking to rectify the lack of provisions as best he could from his end, sending out an order that Christmas Day that the following day (Dec 26th) detachments, under the order of the Commissary General, would be sent out "for the purpose of collecting flour, grain, cattle and pork for the army."
However, as the hardships of my ancestors strengthened their resolve as Mormon Pioneers, so did the hardships of that winter of 1777, and the help of a few key men, strengthen the resolve of the Continental Army and see them emerge in the spring a force to be reckoned with--as would be seen.
Among my sources, I viewed several pages of The George Washington Papers at the Library of Congress website. Most of the papers are images of the actual letters written by, for, or to Washington. Some are transcribed into a more readily readable modern font format. At any rate, they are fascinating to search and view. You can find them here:
http://rs6.loc.gov/ammem/gwhtml/gwhome.html
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Christmas Presents or Pinochle? Withholding vs. Unfolding a Story
PLEASE TRANSFER YOUR AFFECTIONS (AND LINKS) TO MY NEW BLOG: Slushpile Avalanche
Is your story developing like a Christmas present or a game of Pinochle?
Hopefully you're NOT writing a Christmas present.
'Huh?' you say. 'But I like opening Christmas presents.'
Who doesn't?
But a Christmas present withholds information until the moment you open it to find out what it is. Writers should NEVER withhold information that is important to the development of the story. An artfully constructed story is not JUST about the present. But once you've opened a present all the carefully folded wrapping paper, the artfully tied bows, the layers of bubble wrap are all tossed in the trash, forgotten for the sake of the gift itself.
A writer doesn't want to have those things forgotten. He wants them to be just as memorable and important as the resulting present.
An example: I recently slushed a story in which the author withheld all the important information about the storyline and the main character until, literally, the last 2 paragraphs. I'm sure he intended it to be clever and surprising. Instead it was disappointing and misleading, and when you mislead your readers you betray their confidence in you, the writer. Sure, the ending was memorable, but the story showed itself to be just a bunch of cheap paper and curl ribbon.
So really, a well-constructed story should not be like a Christmas present, regardless of how wonderful presents are.
A well-constructed story SHOULD be like a game of Pinochle.
I've been playing Pinochle for coming up on thirty years. It's an intricate game of luck and strategy.
The game of Pinochle begins with the entire 48 card deck being dealt to the four players. At the beginning of each hand I hold 1/4th of the available cards. That's a considerable amount of information to begin a game with. From those 12 cards, a seasoned player can tell a great deal about how the game may play out. As the hand continues, I receive more bits of information gleaned from the bids of the other players, the suit called as trump, the exchange of cards, the melding of certain cards for points, all followed by the meticulous playing of tricks that ends the hand.
The game is never boring, often surprising, but instead of having information withheld from me, the information UNFOLDS at the precise moment when it is crucial to the game.
For example, if I take the bid and am able to construct myself a sizeable number of points, I still must remove the power cards from the hands of my opponents and win tricks in order to keep those points. While I know which cards I'm missing, I don't know for certain who has them. In some instances the very outcome of the game depends on the distribution of those cards, and the resulting play, whether for good or bad, is always a surprise and a delight, even though I've made good, educated guesses at the potential outcomes beforehand.
The interesting part of the game is not in KNOWING how the game will play out, nor is it in being COMPLETELY CLUELESS as to how the game will play out, it's in being fascinated with how the game--despite or because of my clues, information, and guesses--ACTUALLY plays out. The same is true of good story construction.
Unfolding. A story, like a game of Pinochle, should unfold.
In order for that to happen, a writer must be open about a few things, and open about them in the first few lines (paragraphs for longer stories or novels) of the story.
Some absolute basics:
*Too many writers withhold the very name of their main character. Why? I scratch my head over this one. When you give your character a name, especially in the first line of your story, you give your read a familiar arm on which to enter the party. It seems overly simplistic--like looking at the serpent on the staff. Unlike the disbelieving Israelites, JUST DO IT.
*Establish time frame and setting immediately. Don't take your guest into the party blindfolded.
*Establish a conflict early. Giving your main character a problem provides the reader with a 'talking point' at the party. He immediately becomes concerned with the main character and wants to see the problem solved (translate: he CARES).
*Open the story with action, rather than inaction. Don't take your guest into the party before it begins, or after all the exciting events have already taken place. Things HAPPEN at a party, your story should be about things happening, not about things that will eventually happen or have already happened.
These principles are like the deal at the beginning of a Pinochle game. You have your hand. Now let the story unfold.
Another important principle related to UNFOLDING a story has to do with Point of View. If you do not have a clear grasp on the mechanics and importance of Point of View to a story, you need to stop now, buy a copy of Orson Scott Card's Character and Viewpoint, and read it cover to cover three times.
Too many beginning writers fail to understand that your reader sees what's happening through your POV character's eyes, therefore, what the POV character knows, the reader should know. What the POV character discovers should be discovered by the reader at the exact same moment.
If your character walks into a room, sees a beautiful woman, describes her in loving detail, walks up to her then says, "Hi, honey," she turns and kisses him and says to the people around her, "This is my husband, Paul," you've withheld crucial information that your POV characters knows.
It's confusing, it's demeaning to your reader, it's withholding, and I see it far too often.
That scene should look like this:
Before you tell me that last line is withholding, let me tell you you're wrong. Grace isn't the POV character. Paul is. Paul doesn't know Eddy, never met him. He knows (or guesses) only that Grace knows him, therefore that's what the reader knows. If this scene had been written in Grace or Eddy's POV, and that information had been withheld until that last sentence, then it definitely WOULD be withholding.
This article addresses story development through conflict, and while it's geared towards literary fiction writers, it's precepts are applicable to all fiction writers. Pay special attention to section 2: Be Dramatic in Storytelling.
Conflict in Literary Fiction
Is your story developing like a Christmas present or a game of Pinochle?
Hopefully you're NOT writing a Christmas present.
'Huh?' you say. 'But I like opening Christmas presents.'
Who doesn't?
But a Christmas present withholds information until the moment you open it to find out what it is. Writers should NEVER withhold information that is important to the development of the story. An artfully constructed story is not JUST about the present. But once you've opened a present all the carefully folded wrapping paper, the artfully tied bows, the layers of bubble wrap are all tossed in the trash, forgotten for the sake of the gift itself.
A writer doesn't want to have those things forgotten. He wants them to be just as memorable and important as the resulting present.
An example: I recently slushed a story in which the author withheld all the important information about the storyline and the main character until, literally, the last 2 paragraphs. I'm sure he intended it to be clever and surprising. Instead it was disappointing and misleading, and when you mislead your readers you betray their confidence in you, the writer. Sure, the ending was memorable, but the story showed itself to be just a bunch of cheap paper and curl ribbon.
So really, a well-constructed story should not be like a Christmas present, regardless of how wonderful presents are.
A well-constructed story SHOULD be like a game of Pinochle.
I've been playing Pinochle for coming up on thirty years. It's an intricate game of luck and strategy.
The game of Pinochle begins with the entire 48 card deck being dealt to the four players. At the beginning of each hand I hold 1/4th of the available cards. That's a considerable amount of information to begin a game with. From those 12 cards, a seasoned player can tell a great deal about how the game may play out. As the hand continues, I receive more bits of information gleaned from the bids of the other players, the suit called as trump, the exchange of cards, the melding of certain cards for points, all followed by the meticulous playing of tricks that ends the hand.
The game is never boring, often surprising, but instead of having information withheld from me, the information UNFOLDS at the precise moment when it is crucial to the game.
For example, if I take the bid and am able to construct myself a sizeable number of points, I still must remove the power cards from the hands of my opponents and win tricks in order to keep those points. While I know which cards I'm missing, I don't know for certain who has them. In some instances the very outcome of the game depends on the distribution of those cards, and the resulting play, whether for good or bad, is always a surprise and a delight, even though I've made good, educated guesses at the potential outcomes beforehand.
The interesting part of the game is not in KNOWING how the game will play out, nor is it in being COMPLETELY CLUELESS as to how the game will play out, it's in being fascinated with how the game--despite or because of my clues, information, and guesses--ACTUALLY plays out. The same is true of good story construction.
Unfolding. A story, like a game of Pinochle, should unfold.
In order for that to happen, a writer must be open about a few things, and open about them in the first few lines (paragraphs for longer stories or novels) of the story.
Some absolute basics:
*Too many writers withhold the very name of their main character. Why? I scratch my head over this one. When you give your character a name, especially in the first line of your story, you give your read a familiar arm on which to enter the party. It seems overly simplistic--like looking at the serpent on the staff. Unlike the disbelieving Israelites, JUST DO IT.
*Establish time frame and setting immediately. Don't take your guest into the party blindfolded.
*Establish a conflict early. Giving your main character a problem provides the reader with a 'talking point' at the party. He immediately becomes concerned with the main character and wants to see the problem solved (translate: he CARES).
*Open the story with action, rather than inaction. Don't take your guest into the party before it begins, or after all the exciting events have already taken place. Things HAPPEN at a party, your story should be about things happening, not about things that will eventually happen or have already happened.
These principles are like the deal at the beginning of a Pinochle game. You have your hand. Now let the story unfold.
Another important principle related to UNFOLDING a story has to do with Point of View. If you do not have a clear grasp on the mechanics and importance of Point of View to a story, you need to stop now, buy a copy of Orson Scott Card's Character and Viewpoint, and read it cover to cover three times.
Too many beginning writers fail to understand that your reader sees what's happening through your POV character's eyes, therefore, what the POV character knows, the reader should know. What the POV character discovers should be discovered by the reader at the exact same moment.
If your character walks into a room, sees a beautiful woman, describes her in loving detail, walks up to her then says, "Hi, honey," she turns and kisses him and says to the people around her, "This is my husband, Paul," you've withheld crucial information that your POV characters knows.
It's confusing, it's demeaning to your reader, it's withholding, and I see it far too often.
That scene should look like this:
Paul shook the rain from his hair as he entered the gallery. He saw Grace near the Gaugin, talking with a group of people he didn't know. She seemed to know them all, laughing with them like they were old friends, one of the men--an Armani-suited blonde jock-type--stood close enough anyone might have guessed HE was her husband.
A waiter came by with a tray of champagne flutes. Paul took one, sipped at it, stood there watching her. He liked watching her, to see her smile, to see her laugh, to know she would leave the gallery with him tonight, not the jock with the expensive suit.
Finally, like he knew she would, she turned to look for him, her neck craning, her lips parting, her head twisting this way and that, causing her hair to sway just so. When her eyes found his he smiled and waved, then worked his way through the crowd to put his arm around her, kiss her lightly on the cheek, and see her eyes light up when he whispered "I put your purse in the trunk" in her ear as if it were something sensual.
Grace turned to the jock. "Eddy, this is my husband, Paul."
Paul shook the man's hand.
"Paul," she went on, "my cousin, Eddy."
Before you tell me that last line is withholding, let me tell you you're wrong. Grace isn't the POV character. Paul is. Paul doesn't know Eddy, never met him. He knows (or guesses) only that Grace knows him, therefore that's what the reader knows. If this scene had been written in Grace or Eddy's POV, and that information had been withheld until that last sentence, then it definitely WOULD be withholding.
This article addresses story development through conflict, and while it's geared towards literary fiction writers, it's precepts are applicable to all fiction writers. Pay special attention to section 2: Be Dramatic in Storytelling.
Conflict in Literary Fiction
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
New NEW Low in Submission Etiquette
Get this:
A novella.
Someone sent us a novella.
Is the name of our site not clue enough that we don't publish novellas?
*shakes head*
Maybe we need to call ourselves Flash Fiction (not novellas or poems or oddly formatted stories) Online.
Think it'd work?
Me neither.
A novella.
Someone sent us a novella.
Is the name of our site not clue enough that we don't publish novellas?
*shakes head*
Maybe we need to call ourselves Flash Fiction (not novellas or poems or oddly formatted stories) Online.
Think it'd work?
Me neither.
Monday, December 7, 2009
New Low in Submission Etiquette
An editor I know received a submission that was, get this, landscape format AND in all-caps.
Wow.
Note to submitters: Don't do this. Ever.
Wow.
Note to submitters: Don't do this. Ever.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Dilemma
I belong to a reading group, and it's an awesome reading group, populated by writers and editors and such-like.
This month's book is called Casting Spells. It's a romance. There are only a few genres I very rarely read. Romance is one of them.
I'm having a very hard time reading this book.
It's not awful. It really isn't. It has an engaging narrative style, it's witty, it's got the makings of a pretty good storyline. I've tried to read MUCH worse published fiction, like Stephanie Meier's The Host. But I'm reading The Book of Atrix Wolfe by Patricia McKillip as well, and the two just don't compare. It's like switching back and forth from Masterpiece Theater to Sesame Street.
So what do I do? We're meeting next week, though I'll probably only go if I can get someone to come with me. I'm horrible at night driving, and night driving an hour away is darned near terrifying.
But just say I find someone to come with me? What do I do? Do I read the book, even though I'd rather be reading (or SHOULD be reading, a.k.a. slush) something else? Do I NOT read the book and go to the book group and tell them I just couldn't get through it?
What would YOU do?
This month's book is called Casting Spells. It's a romance. There are only a few genres I very rarely read. Romance is one of them.
I'm having a very hard time reading this book.
It's not awful. It really isn't. It has an engaging narrative style, it's witty, it's got the makings of a pretty good storyline. I've tried to read MUCH worse published fiction, like Stephanie Meier's The Host. But I'm reading The Book of Atrix Wolfe by Patricia McKillip as well, and the two just don't compare. It's like switching back and forth from Masterpiece Theater to Sesame Street.
So what do I do? We're meeting next week, though I'll probably only go if I can get someone to come with me. I'm horrible at night driving, and night driving an hour away is darned near terrifying.
But just say I find someone to come with me? What do I do? Do I read the book, even though I'd rather be reading (or SHOULD be reading, a.k.a. slush) something else? Do I NOT read the book and go to the book group and tell them I just couldn't get through it?
What would YOU do?
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