Snipping it in the Bud

The hubby has come and gone. My parents have come and gone. The hiatus was...sort of a hiatus. I didn't truly put things aside because I was thinking about writing even if I wasn't putting words on paper.

Actually, I was taking them away.

While I set the book aside as promised, I did work on the SCBWI W-I-P Grant application to make sure the first three chapters of my book didn't go over the 2,500 word limit. I agonized over every word and every sentence in those chapters.

I snipped. I clipped. I even blipped.

Yep. That's right. I swore. Like a drunken sailor. In German, of course, so my kids didn't know.

I couldn't figure out how to get the lousy thing smaller when I was finally down to cutting the last 50 words. Every word I cut found it's way back in because, without it, something was missing.

A smell. A sound. A feeling. An image. A character thought. A hint of voice.

I wasn't looking at sentences at this point. I was looking at every. Single. Individual. Word.

And two good things came out of it:

1.) I did finally find a spot that always felt a little wonky but I didn't know how to fix. And I fixed it. And my writing sample was 2,496 words.

2.) I really understand what Richard Peck meant when he said to write the tightest page you can. And then cut 10 words.

You have to snip it in the bud. Without taking out what's important.

And hopefully you figure out how to do it before your kids understand whatever language you are swearing in.

Every word counts

I was a chatterbox as a kid and my mother used to warn me:

Someday your mouth

will get you in trouble.

So I stopped talking so much and took up writing, thinking, "Ha! Now I can't get in trouble. I can fix the words with an eraser, a white typwriter ink removal strip, or a delete button."

But my mother was still right.

I am toast. Burnt. Dried out. No butter or jelly.

If you look up the word 'pathetic' there are two definitions:

1. causing or evoking pity, sympathetic sadness, sorrow, etc.

2. miserably or contemptibly inadequate.

And when I wrote about House as a compelling character a few months ago I used that word (in addition to many complimentary words) sort of comparing House to my hubby. I was thinking: brilliant, funny guy who helps people. Who also seems unhappy in a way that makes you want things to be better for him.

I was thinking sympathetic sadness.

My hubby went with miserably inadequate.

So...yeah. I'm toast.

I've apologized. And I'm owning up and taking the lumps I deserve because I should have known better.

Every word counts when you are writing. Every word needs to be the one that captures exactly what you want to say. The audience brings their own experiences to the table which will impact how and what they take away from your story, but that is no excuse not to be specific with your words.

Because sometimes you don't get an eraser. Or a white typwriter ink removal strip. Or a delete button.

Even if you really want one.

Every. Day.

I didn't post about being thankful in November because I am a firm believer in being thankful every day.

Every. Day.

And I'm writing about it today because when a very good person dies, it reminds you to say it out loud.

My husband has already lost two medics on this deployment. SGT James Ayube died on December 8th; PFC Paul Cuzzupe died on August 8th. They were good guys. The kind that, even though you only met them in passing and knew of them from your spouse, make you break your once a year crying rule.

So you cry.

A lot.

And then you are thankful.

For your kids. Even when they drive you absolutely stinking bonkers.

For your spouse/significant other/friends. Because Today We're Not on the Bus.

And for words. Because when a person is gone the words we give them in a conversation...a story...at the bottom of a photo...are the only way we have to remember them.

To be thankful for them.

Every. Day.

Words

We recently returned from Istanbul, Turkey, where I experience the most brilliant marketing I have ever seen. We were walking from the metro to a tram and my daughter desperately needed to use a restroom. Lo and behold, in a small shopping area under a bridge was a large sign in English that said:



Nearly every tourist in the area went into the restroom, happily paying their one Turkish Lira (about 75 cents.)

Now the fact that it was the most unmodern bathroom in all of Istanbul, and my daughter was in tears because she couldn't go (whereby I swore off that toilet for the rest of our lives) is irrelevant...because they already had our money.

The relevance is: words. They knew EXACTLY what to put on that sign to bring everyone through the door.

And. It. Worked.

Now if only I could figure out the right words to turn my mg novel into a million dollar bathroom sign idea.