A couple years ago I learned about a publisher looking for short stories featuring ghosts for an anthology. I whipped out a story, and as usual, it was too long. A friend of mine helped me chop it down to the required word length for submission. I'm not sure why, but I kept my original draft as well as the new one. Well, that's not true, I know why I kept it, I liked some of the extra stuff we cut. Al lot of the "voice" and "character" were in the extra parts, and I knew somewhere deep inside I might want to revisit this story someday.
I was right. My story didn't get picked up for the anthology, and it has sat in my files with all my other failed short stories. (I don't have a mind for short stories and have sold very few of them). Recently, I learned of a publisher looking for YA novellas between 15,000-20,000 words. This story seemed to fit the kind of plot they were looking for, but now it was too short. Luckily, I had kept that slightly longer story, but it was still only 7,000 words. I had to add a minimum of 8,000 words to it to make it marketable. What would that do to the plot? Could the story survive being doubled in length? Would it be better for it or bogged down with too much description and extra stuff. I decided to attempt it. Over the past few weeks I went through my story and added bits here and there to pump the story up and add layers to the plot. In the end, I reached my word count goal. I will submit it to the publisher and keep my fingers crossed. If they say no, the story may sit around for a while again. I'm not sure I can pump it up to a full fledged novel unless I make this story just a piece of a larger plot. At any rate, wish me luck. Here's some examples of what it looked like as a short story and now as a novella. Mark has been getting mysterious notes all morning at school that seem to be advising him as to how to write a proper love note to his girlfriend. He is beginning to wonder where the notes are coming from? See how in the original version he jumps to the conclusion that it is a ghost quickly, whereas in the new version he doesn't. Short Story version of "Passing Notes": Suddenly my heart began to race and painful chills rain down my arms and legs. Someone was communicating with me through those letters. Someone I couldn’t see but was able to see me. A ghost? And more frightening still, I realized that I might lose Bethany before we even got going. I couldn’t eat. I threw my lunch away and headed to my next class where I barely concentrated on the P.E. soccer game. All I could think about were those creepy letters and my stupid cell phone, wondering if I’d get a new message from either of them. I checked everything when I got back to the locker room before I dressed. Not so much as a smiley face from Bethany and no new notes. Novella version of "Passing Notes": My heart began to race and painful chills rain down my arms and legs. Two things had me terrified: I might lose Bethany And Those notes weren’t coincidental. They were meant for me. Whoever it was writing the notes had to be someone really stealthy to be able to slip them into strategic places for me to find and then return to make them disappear again. Also, it was someone with a keen interest in my love life and how I was conducting myself. My friends at my table were busy with their phones or gaming devices; no one was really talking much except to say, “Look at this!” or the occasional cuss. I hadn’t even told any of them about Bethany yet. Even though I’m sure they would cheer me on, none of them had much experience with girls, certainly not enough to give me advice that would be of any value. None of them, as far as I knew, had ever written a love letter or even a poem (that wasn’t required for some English assignment). Plus, none of them were in my classes that morning. Who else would care about the quality of my texts to Bethany? The whole thing had a stalker feel to it. That didn’t make a lick of sense to me, though. I’m not the kind of guy that a girl stalks. I shot up over the summer last year, so I’m not as short as I used to be. The five-year war I’d been fighting with pimples was finally coming to an end. Mom keeps saying that my shoulders are broad like my dad’s, but I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I’ve never thought of myself as one of the good-looking guys, and the fact that Bethany even gave me a chance seemed like a minor miracle. So, who on earth would be interested in me to the point of stalking? Or was it one of those girls like Sadie Jones, who bought all the same clothes as Bethany and tried to imitate her all the time? Girls like her creeped me out. I could believe someone like her would send me weird notes like this to get in the middle of what was going on between Bethany and me. I almost convinced myself of that, and found myself scanning the cafeteria for Sadie to see where she was sitting when another thought hit me. Nether Sadie, nor anyone else for that matter, would have been able to read the texts I sent Bethany. I had been in the back of the room when I sent them, and odds were Bethany didn’t even have her phone out, let alone on, during class. No one could have known what I wrote, and therefore no one could tell me that I wrote the notes badly. Everyone else in the cafeteria was busy talking, eating and cutting up with their friends. No one was looking at me as far I could tell. But I felt like there were eyes on me. Right over my shoulder. The feeling actually made my shoulder tingle, like when someone is too close, and I shrugged uncomfortably. I couldn’t eat. I threw my lunch away and headed to my next class where I barely concentrated on the P.E. soccer game. All I could think about were those creepy letters and my stupid cell phone, wondering if I get a new message from either of them. I checked everything when I got back to the locker room before I dressed. Not so much as an emoticon from Bethany and no new notes. ![]() I am inviting authors to visit and share their experiences with revision. My guest today is Gordon L. Rottman, and he writes western and dystopian themed novels. His current published books are The Hardest Ride and Tears in the River from Taliesin Publishing. Like me, he enjoys playing around with POV in his drafts, and here are his thoughts and examples of how he goes about choosing the right tone for his work. Go ahead and send a comment to let Gordon know which version you think will work better for his work in progress. From Gordon L. Rottman: Countless times in writers’ groups and on-line discussion groups we hear, “How do I decide which point of view I use” or “How do I choose the right POV?” For starters, there are no rules, regardless what some many tell you. For example, a “rule” is that young adult books should be 1st person and adult fiction, 3rd person. Ignore that. Let’s say you’re starting a book. No doubt you’ve thought about it a lot and have constructed scenes in your mind. In what POV did you envision those scenes? What sounds right for your protag, her environment and situation? How deep into your protag’s mind do you want the reader to see? Her intimate thoughts or keep her mysterious with questions about her motives or abilities. Another way to decide is a “write test,” like a “screen test” so to speak. Write a chapter or a scene you envisioned. It doesn’t have to be the book’s beginning, any part you want. Write it in the 1st person POV and then write the same scene in the 3rd person. You might give it a day or so between the two “write tests.” Once they’re done, read through them both. Which archives the “feel” or voice you want? You can also take them to your critique group, but remember, they probably do not fully understand the voice you’re looking for. Too, you might have decided which you preferred while writing the two pieces. I started a YA dystopian in 3rd person and six chapters into it I decided I wanted to get deeper into the protags mind. I rewrote the first chapter in the 3rd person, liked it, and converted the rest in a short day. Rather than the common 3rd person for my Western novel, The Hardest Ride (Taliesin Publishing), I went with 1st person as I wanted the reader to see more of the protag’s—Bud’s—personality and emotions. It worked well as it allowed him to be more of a conduit to understanding Marta, a mute 16-year old Mexican girl. In 1st person he could better express how his relationship with the feisty girl evolved. Example: From a work in progress, Blazing Summer. The protag, Ashley, is with a crew undertaking forest firefighter training. Third Person A shovel load of dirt spattered on Ashley’s feet. “Oops. Who didn’t control his shovel?” The Bulldozer was smirking at her. Ashley ignored him. There was gravel in her shoes. Another spray of dirt hit her. “Sorry, I’m sloppy.” “Really. More like so uncoordinated you’d trip over air.” Another shovel full followed, which she daftly sidestepped. She was gritting her teeth. Don’t start anything, she ordered herself. She’d known to expect this. Ashley was ready to dodge the next shovelful, but the instant she swung her pulaski to cut a stob, Bulldozer swung a shovelful at her tool and the dirt hit Matt’s legs to her left making it look like Ashley had caused the flying dirt. “Hey! Watch it!” “Sorry.” She glared at the Bulldozer smoldering. Jenny had seen it all, but ignored it. Finally she shouted, “Control your tool.” The Bulldozer didn’t launch any more misaimed shots. They kept working to the right. Her forearms and shoulders burned. Sweet ran into her dust-filled eyes. Everything’s got to end sometime, she hoped. They’d reached the road after six-hundred feet. They were done. Beth swiped her bandanna over her sweat and dust-covered face and with cheery enthusiasm shouted, “Fresh air, the great outdoors, an aerobic workout, and they’re paying us for this!” Ashley spit out a gob of muddy salvia. Or - First Person A shovel load of dirt spattered on my feet. “Oops. Who didn’t control his shovel?” The Bulldozer was smirking at me. I ignored him. There was gravel in my shoes. Another spray of dirt hit me. “Sorry, I’m sloppy.” “Really. More like so uncoordinated you’d trip over air.” Another shovel full followed, which I daftly sidestepped. I gritted my teeth. Don’t start anything, I ordered myself. I’d known to expect this. I was ready to dodge the next shovelful, but instant I swung my Pulaski to cut a stob, Bulldozer swung a shovelful at my tool and the dirt hit Matt’s legs to my left making it look like I’d caused the flying dirt. “Hey! Watch it!” “Sorry.” I gave Bulldozer what I hoped was a smoldering glare. Jenny had seen it all, but ignored it. Finally she shouted, “Control your tool.” The Bulldozer didn’t launch any more misaimed shots. We kept working to the right. My forearms and shoulders burned. Sweet ran into my dust-filled eyes. Everything’s got to end sometime, I tried to convince myself. We reached the road after six-hundred feet. We were done. Beth swiped her bandanna over her sweat and dust-covered face and with cheery enthusiasm shouted, “Fresh air, the great outdoors, an aerobic workout, and they’re paying us for this!” I spit out a gob of muddy salvia. |
D. G. DriverAward-winning author of books for teen and tween readers. Learn more about her and her writing at www.dgdriver.com Archives
July 2024
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Write and Rewrite Blog
“There are no bad stories, just ones that haven’t found their right words yet.”
A blog mostly about the process of revision with occasional guest posts, book reviews, and posts related to my books.