Monthly Archives: May 2015

A Genie, A Wish & A Retreat to Better Fiction

My Novel-In-Progress (NIP) is full of baby-boomer nostalgia. Do you remember the TV show I dream of Jeanie? You are showing your age. But if I could conjure up a genie, and a wish to be granted by a hottie like Barbara Eden, I’d have one for writers. It would be to give them the time and resources to attend an extended retreat and escape their daily lives for a week or a long weekend and focus on their craft.

That nasty day job that pays the bills pulled me away early from the Writers’ Retreat Workshop in San Antonio this year. So I asked the very talented, soon-to-be published author, Camille Di Maio to fill me in on what I missed.

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Writers Retreat Workshop 2015
By Camille Di Maio

The Setting

We were psychologists, realtors, nuclear scientists, grocery store cashiers, and ex-cons. We hailed from Texas, Utah, Florida, Canada and Korea. We wrote romance, horror, suspense, literary tales, and in a category all its own

A Writing Retreat with Donald Maass

Literary agent and novel guru Donald Maas spent time with writers in San Antonio last week (May 2015) counseling, critiquing and instructing for the Writers’ Retreat Workshop. It’s a fun, but intense week, for Fictionistas. Since video is what I do when I’m not involved in literary malfeasance, I decided to put together this clip about the retreat with the one, overriding take-away from Donald’s workshop.

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It’s all about making your readers feel.

 

 

Click Here.

The thought about how the art of fiction is all about what you make your readers feel struck a chord with me. And Donald wrote about it as the key to creating The Great American Novel that truly is great, in his book Writing 21st Century Fiction.

As for writing Bad Fiction, at least that one bad opening sentence:
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With her interest in dime-store novels finally fading and Christmas just days away, little LIzzy Borden sat quietly in the corner and crossed “tomahawk” off her Christmas list, writing instead the word AXE, carefully in her best penmanship, which made her mother and father so proud.

An Awesome Retreat for Fiction Writers

If you don’t count my attempt to write a total ripoff of the Hardy Boys at age twelve, I started getting serious about writing fiction shortly after moving to Austin twenty-five years ago. That’s when I discovered writing instructor Gary Provost in the pages of Writers Digest. WD We lost Gary back in 1995, but the writers’ retreat workshop he co-founded is still going strong and going on this week in Texas.

I am a graduate of the workshop from a couple of years back, shortly before publishing my first novel Live At Five. I wish every budding author could experience something like that, a week of writing and socializing with other writers. It’s fiction summer camp for adults. So on this 20th anniversary of Gary’s passing, I created this short video tribute to Gary with Writers’ Retreat Workshop co-founder Gail Provost Stockwell and current director Jason Sitzes.

It also provides one of Gary’s favorite tips for new fiction writers:

I will grab more video from the 2015 version of the Writers’ Retreat Workshop in San Antonio and share some newfound knowledge from one of the instructors next week.

In the meantime really great bad sentence to start your novel:
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Hard-boiled private dick Harrison Bogart couldn’t tell if it was the third big glass of cheap whiskey he’d just finished, or the way the rain-moistened blouse clung so tightly to the perfect figure of the dame who just appeared panting in his office doorway, but he was certain of one thing…he had the hottest mother-in-law in the world.

Sneakers, Panhandlers & Why I Play the Lottery

People who are not afflicted with the DNA of serial dreamers are smart enough to avoid playing the lottery. The odds are astronomical. Not quite as bad as the odds of getting an agent and certainly better than getting a New York publisher to bite on your novel these days. But I play the lottery and I can blame Freddy.

More than fifteen years ago my wife and I took a trip to New Orleans. Somewhere near Cafe Du Monde we were approached by a skinny little panhandler in a dirty and torn t-shirt who said, “Five bucks sez I can tell ya where ya got your shoes.” I looked down at my generic Converse sneakers and wondered what was the catch. So I negotiated with the guy, who said his name was Freddy, and told him that I wouldn’t commit to the bet, but I’d grease his palm if I liked the answer.
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He said, “Ya got them on your feet.”
Lame as that was, I gave him the three singles in my pocket. (It wasn’t worth the $20 bill I had left.)

Five or six years later I was visiting the folks in California. My buddy Dave and I went up to The City for lunch on Fisherman’s Wharf. We strolled along the Embarcadero and stopped at a plaza on the edge of the San Francisco Bay to gawk along with all the other tourists at the jugglers, the mimes, the human statues and musicians. We were standing there, trying to get a smile or even a blink out of the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz when I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Ten bucks sez I can tell ya where ya got your shoes.” Apparently inflation had hit Freddy the panhandler too. It was the same skinny little dude in the same t-shirt.

I cut a deal. Ten bucks, but he’d have to give five to the Tin Man if I could tell him where he got his shoes, and I would get to go first. I studied his battered Nikes and said, “Ya got them on your feet, dude.” I won’t repeat what Freddy said but hey, I got a smile out of the Tin Man at last.

I am not making that up. So what are the odds of getting hit up by the same panhandler with the same schtick more than five years and 2,275.8 miles apart? What are the odds of being in exactly the right place at exactly the right moment in time to have that experience just once, let alone twice in a lifetime? Imagine the thousands of possible deviations, delays and decisions that could have come between me and Freddy 2.0. Really, now?

I don’t have a clue what the odds might be, but Freddy made a believer out of me. And so I buy lottery tickets and hope that one day, as I am handing my dollar to the convenience store clerk, little Freddy the panhandler will be sitting on my shoulder and whispering in my ear. Let’s get lucky; baby needs a new pair of shoes.
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As the foeman’s axe descended, Ragnar Thorvaldsson thought

How Your Body Shape Affects Book Sales

At this stage in my author career, my body is much like I was as a college freshman, a little over six feet tall and weighing in at a rail-thin 175 pounds. Recently I talked about how to get noticed as a writer over an enchilada lunch with very successful author friend, and I attended the IBPA Publishing-U conference. My take away from both is that your body matters. Muscle up and get sales.

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