Sharon Bala's Blog, page 8

The Canadian Press interviewed me about every blowhard’s favourite topic: authors writing outside their perspectives. How do we create characters whose identities (skin colour, class, sexuality, gender, disability) are different from our own? Is it possible to ace the job and should we even try?

When the request came in, I almost turned it down. Despite what certain dinosaurs might like to believe, this isn’t a straight forward subject. It’s complicated and nuanced and too often dismissed as censorship. (As if there’s a giant mute button Brown people can press to silence writers we despise. HA HA HA. WE WISH.) I wasn’t about to let some unknown reporter twist my words to serve the Old White Man Agenda.

But my publicist assured me the journalist was sensible so I gave her quite a bit of my time and I’m not sorry. You can read the piece here. I was glad to see the article included interviews with other authors including Kim Davids Mandar who edited In | Appropriate, an excellent collection of interviews all about this subject. If I was the head of an MFA program, I would make the book required reading.

This Fall I’ve run two online workshops on “Writing Who You Don’t Know.” The first was for a small group in Alberta and the second for about 70 writers from all over the place including the US and the UK. The turnout at the second workshop was shocking, especially given it was Saturday morning and a number of west coast heroes rose before dawn to Zoom in. But then again, maybe it’s not so surprising. This is difficult work, tricky to pull off. Traditional how-to manuals offer no guidance, too little attention is paid to the subject in classes, and the homogeneity of the industry ensures there’s no sober second thought. Then some poorly written, trope-infested book comes out, the Internet pounces, and all the fragile snowflakes whine about how they will never again win a Booker just because they are straight white men (oh, for a mute button).

All to say, I’m here to help. I’ve got a one-hour workshop and a two-hour workshop, both test-driven and well received. And listen, if you’ve been following me here for any length of time, you know I’m not a charlatan. I’m a thorough and meticulous researcher. I put together thoughtful workshops that give attendees food for thought as well as practical craft advice. If you belong to an organization that would like to host an online workshop, get in touch for more details, references, and the price.

This episode of the Longform podcast featuring friends, podcasters, and co-authors Aminatou Sow and Ann Friedman, is a plug for their new book Big Friendship but around the 20 minute mark they talk very openly about the money. As in: the dollar figure of their advance (which, by the way, made me nearly spit out my coffee…so uh… trigger warning, I guess), the agents’ fee (15%), how they hired an independent editor and fact checker, and the casino of publishing. Well worth a listen.

Two weeks ago, The Boat People won the 2020 NL Book Awards, a prize that’s given to a work of fiction once every two years. The event - hosted by the Writers’ Alliance of NL - took place on Facebook live and featured pre-recorded readings along with the announcement. I watched the ceremony while making chilli in my kitchen and texting with fellow finalist Melissa Barbeau who had just dropped one of her kids at a music lesson and was stealing wifi in an A&W parking lot. And that, in a nutshell, is the 2020 Literary Award Season.

It’s less stressful, this way, I wrote to Melissa whose book, The Luminous Sea, is no stranger to short lists. And it’s true. Those in person award ceremonies where the host draws out the big reveal by thanking the sponsors and reading the jury’s remarks in the slowest cadence possible, while the finalists arrange their faces and prepare to look happy either way, are excruciating. I’ve watched finalists for huge prizes hold hands in solidarity awaiting the results. Last year’s Atlantic Book Awards gave me minor angina.

YAY! So happy for you! Melissa texted when the news came in. And I was happy too. It was a surreal and genuinely wonderful evening but also a little deflating. Because the thing that’s true about all awards is that the reception afterward is a delight. Win or lose, there’s relief and camaraderie and genuine good cheer. And canapés which, once the queasy anticipation has passed, you actually enjoy. I miss in person events. I miss community.

In a normal year, I would have squirrelled the winnings away for a rainy day. But this year demanded a splurge so last night I ordered a new set of dishware. From England, because I’m fancy and unapologetically twee. I’ve owned a mismatched set of cheap and cheerful - and rather chipped - plates for nearly two decades so this felt like a grown up move. A hopeful one too. Because the order was for a set of ten, in anticipation of dinner parties.

Congratulatory flowers from my editor, Anita and the team at M&S, who - let’s face it - are the reason there is a book at all and that it’s any good.

Two years ago, I was at a literary festival, chatting with a group of writers about books that never make it off the hard drive, the ones that are dead even before arrival. Everyone seemed to have one. Everyone except me. I’m a little jealous, I joked. Be careful what you wish for.

At the time I was trying and failing to write a historical fiction, a big, sweeping story that I’d spent over a year working on, at first with great relish, but increasingly with little motivation. In my hotel room, I started to think about a short story I’d written but couldn’t get published. Someone in a class years earlier had said there was more to the story, that it was really a novel. The narrative was told from a single character’s point of view but there were four main figures and idly I began interrogating what their stories were, what a novel might look like if they each had their say. And then I realized one of the characters - a rather milquetoast figure in the short story - was hiding a secret. One that made me anxious. I don’t want to write that story, I thought. And just as quickly the realization: I have to write that story.

So I set aside the historical fiction and started again. Second novel. Take two. I wrote three drafts and then took a break for a couple of months while my editor had a read. Usually when I return to a draft after some time away, I can see all the flaws but also more of its potential. There’s excitement, a kind of rubs-hands-together-enthusiasm to jump back in. But this time, I felt….meh. Somehow this book was not the thing I wanted it to be. Not even close. Worse, it felt somehow less than The Boat People. Not as complicated or textured, not nearly as ambitious. The novel was fine. Maybe even goodish. But it was lacking in a fundamental way and I didn’t know how to make it better. Am I really going to put out a second novel that isn’t as good as the first? I wondered. The prospect made me nervous.

My editor Anita - who is a genius, nothing gets by her - felt the lack too. What are your intentions for this story? she asked. What are you grappling with? What questions do you want to pose? What if this revelation comes sooner rather than later? Why did you choose the first person here and not there? Two and a half hours later, everything was on the table, every character potentially getting the pink slip, one whole storyline and all the subplots chucked out the window.

I’m not revising a draft. I’m writing a brand new book. One I’m genuinely excited to work on, a story I’m proud to tell. Second novel. Take three. I’m sorry, Anita said, as we wrapped up our call. Why? I asked. I’m relieved. Sometimes you have to kill all your darlings. Throw the whole book out and start again from scratch.

There’s a major online book auction happening now until October 4 (9pm EST). Books from a long list of authors are up for auction, most signed and some with a few extra special goodies. Eden Robinson is sending the winner a marked up copy of the manuscript of her upcoming book, the last in the Trickster Trilogy. You could get a sneak peak before it’s on shelves (complete with coffee stains). That’s some serious Canadiana, people! I’m throwing in a little extra something for the person who wins the signed copy of my novel too. All proceeds support book clubs for inmates, the Covid-19 Prisoner Emergency Support Fund and the JAIL Hotline. You can browse the books and place your bids on the website.

Late next month I’ll be moderating a panel at the Toronto International Festival of Authors, talking to Jack Wang about his short story collection We Two Alone and Marc Herman Lynch about his novel Arborescent.

One perk of 2020 (YES. THERE IS ONE GOOD THING ABOUT THIS CURSED YEAR) is I get to take part in these events in my fuzzy slippers without leaving home. And given this one begins at 10:30pm my time, I will for sure be business on the top and flannels on the bottom.

Another perk (OH LOOK THERE ARE TWO) is you can join in your soft pants for free, also from the comfort of your homes. When this is over will we all be hermits who never leave our houses? Possibly.

Tuesday, October 27 at 9pm EST. Full details and registration info at TIFA’s website. The full line up includes other excellent events and workshops, most of them free.

Six weeks ago, I sprained my foot. And then toddled off to yoga. As you do. Turns out, it’s difficult to balance on an injured foot. Also, kinda painful limping home after. Who knew? So anyway, after a text exchange with my doctor (translation: friend who is a doctor though not my doctor and also not a doctor of feet or bones but it’s pandemic times and needs must), I finally took it easy. Except for this one optimistic Sunday when I went berry picking in flip flops. On account of my foot had swollen up and wouldn’t fit into real shoes. After which part of the injured foot went a teensy bit numb and I texted Dr. Friend an aggrieved message demanding to know why the foot wasn’t better yet and she told me to chill, it would take six weeks.

A sprained foot is not a big deal. Is one thing I’ve learn, in case you too should happen to sprain yours one day. No X-rays needed. And no special treatment except ice, elevation, rest, repeat. So many things about our bodies are self-healing. And self-cleaning, for that matter. Though not our hands. Wash your hands.

But still. Six weeks is a long time. No walks. No hikes. No yoga. No berry picking (during blueberry season, no less). No shoes. All the while, the summer with all its glorious physical and outdoor possibility burned itself out. Being on pause is not my forte and neither is gleaning treacle-y life lessons in setback. There have been no upsides to being out of commission, even in this very minor way. I didn’t have any personal epiphanies. I am not grateful for this idiotic accident that could have been so easily avoided if I’d just stepped a millimetre to the right and not walked foot first into my own bed at eight twenty in the morning.

Yesterday, when my bench time was up, I woke early, laced up my hikers, and met a friend for a nip up Signal Hill. The sky was big and blue, the sun flaring over the ocean, a fishing vessel cutting a V through the water. It was pretty close to perfect except a part of me was feeling sorry for myself too and all the morning climbs I’d missed.

Which is how a lot of this year has felt: begrudging cancelled plans, grieving the loss or deferment of my own tiny, selfish dreams. And all because one corona virus hitched a ride on a pangolin or a bat or whatever instead of some other animal and happened to mutate in just the right way to infect a human. A millimetre to the right and it might never have happened.

Later that night I got to thinking about vision boards and charlatans and the Wellness Industrial Complex and the ruse of positivity, that scam finely calibrated to dupe the powerless, peddling the lie that anyone can manifest any destiny they want with positivity, glue, and scissors. And if it fails? That’s on you. You didn’t try hard enough, you didn’t want it enough, you aren’t enough. Except then a virus comes along to expose the fraud. Good vibes and glue guns aren’t worth a damn in a pandemic. Negativity is an unavoidable, necessary, part of life and elbowing it out of the way, discarding it as useless, doesn’t change that fact. Sometimes it’s fine to just be bitter and annoyed. Bad vibes also, please.

Next month I’m teaching a webinar on writing from outside your perspective. Because that’s a straight forward subject and not at all controversial. Also because I’m sick of authors doing such a piss poor job of it while editors and publishers stand by and let these crimes against fiction continue. So when the Writers’ Guild of Alberta reached out to ask if I’d be interested in opening this can of worms live on the internet, I said: You betcha! Here’s the teaser…

How do we write from outside our experience? Specifically: how do we create characters whose skin colour, ethnicity, sexuality, and/or gender are not our own? How do we ensure the characters ring true? In this workshop we will cover dangerous tropes and how to avoid them, the importance of research, subject matter experts, why getting it right is important, practical advice for character building, and ask the crucial questions: why do you want to tell this story and are you equipped for the job?

This session is open to all and geared to writers at any stage of the game. You might be starting on your first story or have several books in print. I’m talking about things that rarely, if ever, get taught in classes, MFA programs or workshops. You don’t have to be a member of the Writers’ Guild of Alberta to attend. Cost is $10 for students, $25 for members, and $35 for everyone else. Saturday, October 17th 10- 11am (MDT) or 1:30-2:30pm in Newfoundland and parts of Labrador. For more details or to register, visit the Writers’ Guild of Alberta’s website.

For the past month I’ve been itemizing the most common issues that plague manuscripts - beginnings, endings, dialogue, characters, pacing, conflict, flashback, interiority and action, and that old cliche: show vs. tell. To conclude, I’m going to offer some more general advice.

Read your manuscript out loud. Each and every word. Pay attention to your annoyance and your boredom, the passages where your eyes glaze over. Pay attention to the cadence of your sentences, the unintended tongue twisters, prose that trips you up.

Set the manuscript aside for a few weeks or a couple of months. Come back to it afresh.

Every scene should reveal character or advance plot. Better still: do both.

At every stage along the way think about specific details. Julia cuts class and lounges in bed with a book. Julia skips calculus and lounges in bed with the new N.K. Jemisin. See?

Most manuscripts would be improved if 70-90% of the direct dialogue was removed. You can quote me on that.

A common blunder is to repeat the same word on the page, often in the same paragraph. A keen eye and a thesaurus are your friends here.

Watch for other forms of repetitions: characters repeating themselves in dialogue, the narrator giving the reader the same information two or three or seventeen times, scenes that are re-enacted. These repetitions are a sign you aren’t trusting the reader.

On that note: resist the urge to over explain. The delete button is your friend.

As the author you must know all, far more than what is on the page. Hemingway’s iceberg theory is a useful metaphor: the reader sees only the tip of the story; the rest they intuit. Or, said another way: "A few things I have found to be true. If you leave out important things or events that you know about, the story is strengthened. If you leave or skip something because you do not know it, the story will be worthless.” (ps. most of what Hemingway writes in that piece is absolute tosh but there are a couple of gems if you’re willing to have a scavenge)

Every author has their own cache of ticks - words and phrases we tend to overuse. (Look and relief are two of mine.) At some point at a late stage in revision, cull the ticks. I keep a running tally of tick words in my notebook so that right before an important draft (say the one that goes to submission), I’ll do a quick search and replace.

Speaking of ticks, here’s my hands down, numero uno pet peeve: smiles, nods, eye rolls. Give yourself a cap, say no more than seven smiles, three nods, and one eye roll allowed per manuscript.

Exclamation marks should be used sparingly.

For God sakes, make sure you haven’t written a rotten egg.

If at this point you’re feeling overwhelmed by the work ahead, take heart. The trough of disillusionment is a normal and necessary part of the process. And if you still feel uncertain or would like a fresh set of eyes and specific editorial advice, drop me a line. This series has been a teaser and only skimmed the surface of my expertise.

Next Thursday evening (September 17, 2020 at 7:30pm NDT) I’ll be interviewing Michael Crummey, winner of the 2020 Thomas Raddall Atlantic Fiction Award about his latest novel, The Innocents (and maybe some of his other work too). This event is a collaboration between the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia and Dalhousie Libraries and will also include readings by finalists Jamie Burnet (reading from Crocuses Hatch From Snow) and Shandi Mitchell (reading from The Waiting Hours). You can tune in for free via Zoom by registering in advance here. After you register, you’ll receive a confirmation email with information on how to join the webinar. Advance reminders will arrive a week and one hour in advance of the event.