Mixed Up Persons

Copyright © 2008, Steven E. Houchin

I recently read The Mark, a suspense novel by author and editor Jason Pinter. I attended his author reading at Third Place Books a couple of months ago. As I read through the book, I discovered something surprising and unusual about the way he wrote it. To see what I mean, let's take a look at a few excerpts. *

The following is how Chapter 6 ends, which is roughly how the whole book reads up to that point:

I ducked into an alleyway, saw a homeless man sleeping under a cardboard box. My head throbbed. I couldn't run anymore. I sat down, and pulled my legs up to my knees. I heard faraway sirens, and the blackness overcame me.

Then Chapter 7 begins with the following:

Joe Mauser couldn't sleep. His torso was warm under the covers. His legs were naked, cold. He eyed the finger of scotch on the nightstand. He left one there every night. Sometimes it worked. Often it didn't. And often he found himself going for a refill.Sitting up, Mauser squeezed the sleep from his eyes and looked at the clock -- 4:27 a.m.

Later, after we hear about Joe Mauser's lousy morning, comes the start of Chapter 8:

You wake up in a sun-dappled alley. Your ribs hurt. There's a knot in the back of your head that throbs nonstop. You feel dizzy. A man wearing a cardboard box for a blanket blinks at you, his eyes adjusting to the sight of this stranger sharing his alley. ... You think it has to be a dream. There's no rational explanation. You have a bed. You live in an apartment ...

See the difference? What we have in these three passages is narration in first person, then third person, then second person. When inside FBI Agent Mauser's head, the narration is third person ("He"). When inside the head of the poor, harried main character, Henry Parker, the narration is always first person ("I") - except at the start of Chapter 8, where the narration slips temporarily into second person ("You"). At the end of Chapter 8's first page, it switches back to "I" as Parker regains his wits. The second person form seems to be a device for portraying a dream-like state of mind for the character. This is something I used in one of my novels, Linear Descent, where a lowlife character has a nightmare where he's caught by the cops. But in that case, it is an actual dream.

I can't recall ever seeing mixed narrative forms like this in a published novel, though I've heard that it has been done. If any of us wannabe-published writers dared to try this, could we get away with it and be taken seriously, or would an agent or editor see it as amateurish? It does not come across that way in The Mark; Pinter manages to make it work.

Sigh! Once you've been successfully published (or make the right inside contacts) I suppose you can break all sorts of writing rules, and everyone will say, "Dahling! You're soooo brilliant!"

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* Excerpts reprinted with permission from Jason Pinter.

Suppose You Met an Agent ...

Copyright © 2008, Steven E. Houchin

A few months ago, I attended a reading at Third Place Books by new author and attorney Ken Isaacson. He was hawking his book, Silent Counsel. I forked over some cash for the book and, along with the author's autograph, received a free bookmark. Oh goodie! Of course, the bookmark advertised the book and included various accolades from reviewers.

Not wanting the marker to go to waste, I actually used it, but didn't really read any of it until recently. I noticed it also included a brief description of the book's plot. Much to my surprise, it looked just like an agent pitch. Its style was one I used myself at Willamette Writers a couple of years ago.

I tried to explain this pitching style, when asked to do so, at a Jessica Morrell workshop I attended earlier this year. Since my brain had long ago forgotten my own pitch, I mumbled and stumbled when explaining it. Now, there it was - that style - on Isaacson's bookmark. Here's how he presents his story:

Suppose the unimaginable: What if your child were killed in a hit-and-run? And the one person who knew the driver's identity - his lawyer - couldn't tell you his name because of a legal technicality? Suppose you were the lawyer, hired to negotiate a plea agreement with the prosecutor for that hit-and-run, but the client had directed you to not reveal his name until he's satisfied with the deal? And the court ordered your silence because the name was thus privileged information? Then the mother finds you, and she's determined to make you talk - at any cost... *

Oooh ... makes you want to know more, right?

Notice that the style isn't just a simple recitation of the plot. It doesn't even name the characters. It is presented as a series of vexing questions: "Suppose ...", "What if ...". Then, at the end is a statement, the zinger: She knows who you are and she's coming to get you!

This is the style I learned in "pitch practice" at Willamette Writers. You build curiosity by posing the book's initial premises as questions and suppositions. Then, you present the critical turning point that wreaks havoc for the main character, or causes everything to unravel.

This example is not your "five seconds in the elevator" pitch where you summarize your book in a sentence or two. Instead, this is what you'd use if you had five minutes face-to-face with an agent, and he/she says, "Tell me what it's about." The pitch doesn't necessarily have to explain the ending (as should a synopsis). If the agent likes it, he'll ask you, "Okay, what happens next?" Ahhh... music to your ears.

[ You can find more about Ken Isaacson at http://www.kenisaacson.com, and Jessica Morrell at http://thewritinglifetoo.blogspot.com. ]

* Reprinted with permission from Ken Isaacson.

Etiquette In the Old West

Copyright © 2008, Steven E. Houchin

I've recently done more research into styles, phrases, and slang from 19th Century America. I found a great book at the library tailored for this purpose: The Writer's Guide to Everyday Life in the 1800s, by Marc McCutcheon (1993, Writer's Digest Books). It lists all sorts of things by category, such as Slang, Fashion, Travel, and Crime. In the section on travel, there is a great sidebar entitled "Stagecoach Etiquette", which is from an 1877 Omaha Herald article. Here is a fun excerpt from it:

"... Don't smoke a strong pipe inside especially in the morning; spit on the leeward side of the coach. If you have anything to take in a bottle, pass it around; a man who drinks by himself in such a case is lost to all human feeling. Provide stimulants before starting; ranch whiskey is not always nectar. ... Don't swear nor lop over on your neighbor when sleeping. Don't ask how far it is to the next station until you get there. ... Never attempt to fire a gun or pistol while on the road; it may frighten the team and the careless handling and cocking of the weapon makes nervous people nervous. Don't discuss politics or religion, nor point out places on the road where horrible murders have been committed, if delicate women are among the passengers. ..."

Book Review: The Godfather, by Mario Puzo

Copyright © 2008, Steven E. Houchin
( Originally written 1 June 2008 )

Critiques of my first book, Linear Descent, revealed that dialog among my Mafia characters needed some additional color. So, I bought a ratty, old paperback copy of The Godfather (possibly an original 1969 edition) at Half Price Books. After reading it, I had a few thoughts about its construction as a novel.

First, the main characters are superbly developed. Their Sicilian ethnicity pervades their psyche. Each character has his/her distinct personality, fears, problems, lusts, faults, and desires. They are believable. Unlike most books that have a clear main character, The Godfather is a conglomeration of characters and subplots whose lives are affected by their relationship to the Godfather, Don Corleone. A whole chapter may focus on some aspect of one character's life, then the next will switch to another character. But always the story is moved forward.

Second, the book has a definite turning point in the middle: Don Corleone is gunned down in the street. Though he survives, his life, and the future course of his organization, are irreversibly changed. There's no going back to "business as usual" for The Family. The organization careens into a tragic mob war, and must compromise -- temporarily -- to survive.

Third, the author completely ignores the rules on point of view. You, the reader, are in everybody's head within each chapter and scene, even changing from paragraph to paragraph. It takes a bit of getting used to, but Puzo seems to make it work. I've recently discovered that this isn't all that unusual in books of this genre. So, clearly, POV violations aren't absolutely fatal for publication, or even success.

Fun With Numbers; To Hyphen Or Not To Hyphen

Copyright © 2008, Steven E. Houchin
( Originally written 14 April 2008 )

I tend to spell out most numbers in my novels (the main exception being dollars and cents). There are definite, but sometimes conflicting, rules for how to spell out numbers in a manuscript. There are several web sites that attempt to deal with this subject. One is Tina Blue's Grammar and Usage for the Non-Expert. Another is at edufind.com.

I'll try to summarize some of the points here.

1. Hyphenate compound numbers from 21 through 99. For example: sixty-five, thirty-one. But, larger numbers aren't hyphenated: one hundred fifty-six (not one-hundred-fifty-six).

2. Hyphenate fractions. For example: three-fifths, one-tenth. But, there are exceptions. If there is already a hyphen present in either the numerator or denominator, no other hyphen is added. For example: twenty-five thirty-eighths (not twenty-five-thirty-eighths). Also, no hyphen is used when the fraction is used as a noun: They were scoreless after three quarters.

3. Hyphenate numbers when joined with a unit of measurement to form an adjective. For example: twenty-five-minute walk, thirty-six-year-old man, fifty-yard pass, seventeenth-century historian. This rule also holds true when using digits: 25-minute walk. But, when not used as an adjective, the joining hyphen is not used, as in: walked twenty-five minutes (not twenty-five-minutes), passed fifty yards (not fifty-yards).

Clearly, describing these rules is quite complicated, but if we write numbers this way, it is a subject we need to understand.

Murderous Prose

Copyright © 2008, Steven E. Houchin

It seems I just can't get enough of author Raymond Chandler (1888-1959). His portrayal of the hard-bitten, working class Private Dick may only be matched by his contemporary, Dashiell Hammett, with his starring ace detective Sam Spade.

Chandler is famous for his gritty detective protagonist Philip Marlowe, who prowls the streets and environs of 1930's and 1940's Los Angeles, richly transporting the reader headlong into that era. Two of his most famous Marlowe novels, Farewell, My Lovely (1940) and The Big Sleep (1939), were also successful movies.

I'm currently reading Chandler's The Simple Art of Murder (Vintage Books, 1988), which begins with an essay - often scathingly critical - on the state of the "detective story", and his disdain for its many practitioners. He says, "The average detective story is probably no worse than the average novel, but you never see the average novel. It doesn't get published." The remainder of the book is a series of - you guessed it - short detective stories.

What amazes me most about Chandler is his stunning descriptive phrases. For example, his story Spanish Blood begins:

"Big John Masters was large, fat and oily. He had sleek blue jowls and very thick fingers on which the knuckles were dimples."

Or, the first paragraph of I'll Be Waiting:

"... Carl, the night porter, turned down the last of three table lamps in the main lobby ... The blue carpet darkened a shade or two and the walls drew back into remoteness. The chairs filled with shadowy loungers. In the corners were memories like cobwebs."

Wow!

Meet Your Perpetual Agent

Copyright © 2008, Steven E. Houchin

So, you’ve finally been published, but your agent has lost interest in you, or you’re not getting along. It’s time to find a new agent, someone you like, who is enthusiastic about your career potential. So, you terminate your old agency agreement. Your new agent can now aggressively move forward selling your book’s rights into new markets, right? Well ... maybe not. You may be hampered by “The Interminable Agency Clause”.

An Interminable Agency Clause, also known as an “Interminable Rights Clause” or a “Perpetual Agency Clause”, essentially gives your old, unloved agent all rights to represent your book as long as the book’s copyright is in effect. That’s your lifetime plus 70 years - a very long time - and a big problem. Normally, the agent would only have rights during the life of a publishing contract. So, if your publisher drops your book, your new agent can’t re-sell it to a new publisher because your old agent has perpetual representation rights. Even if your old agent agrees to cede representation to your new agent, he can still demand commissions for any new sales.

Many professional writers groups warn against this practice. Even if you love your agent, agencies that own the rights can change personnel or be sold, leaving you out in the cold with strangers.

My main source for this is novelist Victoria Strauss’ blog entry at:
http://accrispin.blogspot.com/2007/12/victoria-strauss-interminable-agency.html

The Interminable Agency Clause: don’t let it happen to you!