When I was fresh out of college and began to write stories and submit them, I ignored that classic wisdom that has been handed out for ages: Write about what you know!
I couldn’t possibly do that. I didn’t know anything. I hadn’t climbed Everest or swum the English Channel, or lived with gorillas, or developed a vaccine. I had a good background in America Literature. That was what I knew.
It wasn’t until I had four children of my own that I found myself using the very words I had heard my mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother say to me when I was a child: “Young lady, you’d better remember who you are!”
Who you are is intricately connected to what you know and from whence you came. This is where your voice lies hidden — in the memories and feelings that are already innately part of you.
I grew up in an extended family that included grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins by the dozens. Gatherings were frequent, and they were exciting times for a child — especially a child who constantly pleaded, “Tell me another story!”
While other younsters heard The Little Engine That Could at bedtime, I listened, wide-eyed, to tales of the pioneers. Some were relatively tame: stories of wildflower hunts, family picnics, camel rides down “D” Street, swimming in the Santa Ana, which, my grandfather assured me, ran deep and strong and was full of fish all year long.
But, depending on who was doing the story telling, I often got another view of early life in the valley: bull and bearfights, scalpings, shootups and shootouts, and the funerals that followed. To this day, I cannot stand under a pine tree and peel away some sticky sap to chew without feeling my spine tingle as I look up cautiously to make sure an Indian isn’t lurking in the branches above.
I sat on lots of laps. I listened, and I absorbed, as fascinated by the language, the rhythms of speech, the dialects, the expressions, as by the stories themselves. The men with the long white beards I so admired and the women whose hands could behead a chicken and pluck it clean one minute and create intricate and beautiful stitchery the next were masters of the oral tradition. They were inspired story tellers.
I liked the way these people of another generation sounded. I even tried to talk like them, to imitate the sounds of their voices, their twists of a phrase. They taught me that the land shapes people, but people can also shape the land. I learned that history is made minute by minute, even (or perhaps especially) by pioneers of any age whose names are not destined to be remembered.
It was a great disappointment to me to go to school and discover that history there was not exciting. It was: memorize the facts, fill in the blanks, and get your grade. We were not encouraged to think much about people and why they acted the way they did. And I knew it should be different because a much more exciting kind of history had been conveyed to me throughout my childhood consistently and energetically.
This, then, was what I knew — the heritage that had been passed to me through voices from the past. And I began to write, for I had found my historical voice.
To be continued . . .
Marilyn
Friday, August 7, 2009
Finding Your Historical Voice
Finding Your Historical Voice: Part II
As soon as I knew what I was going to write about, I began with setting, for I instinctively knew that everything has to happen somewhere. The locale I would write about was, of course, the valley that is home to me.
I love our mountains. I love the canyons, cut between hills that seem to roll over upon themselves like bread dough being kneaded. I love the smell of sage, manzanita, yucca, and wild lilac. I love the way morning mist plays over those warm springs that still exist in large numbers beneath the surface of the earth. I love it when winter rains swell the creeks where I waded as a child. I love the sycamores with their spotted, twisted trunks and big leaves that rustle in the wind. And I love the north wind — the Santana –that arrives with a lusty howl and makes the air so clear that I can reach out and trace the mountain shadows with my fingertips.
So did Emmy, my thirteen-year-old heroine. She loved it all as much as I did. I let her live on an island in Lytle Creek, much as my own great-grandmother had lived. I let threatening flood waters pour down the canyon. I sat with her as she picked flowers in the sunshine. I felt her sorrows and her gladness.
Other characters, however, had different feelings about the place they lived. Tawny Crawford, the villainous character from Straight Along a Crooked Road, who was removed from the wagon train, only to appear again on the lawless streets of early San Bernardino, saw the valley as a chance to become powerful. Moss Murphy, a mountain man I had become fond of, saw it as a haven for himself and his Indian wife. Luanna, Emmy’s sister and the heroine of book one, found that the valley was the happy end of her journey.
After I decided who was going to be in the book, I did what all good authors do. I sat back and listened. I wrote pages of description, narrative, and dialogue, and I listened some more. At last I heard my characters speak in their own voices. This is what finding your historical voice is all about — feeling the way into your characters and discovering how different they all sound.
There is no one single historical voice in a book — even though I felt closest to Emmy, my heroine, and heard her voice most often. There are many voices. A unique one for each character.
My characters respond strongly to the place — the setting in which they find themselves. It influences their actions, their decisions, their dreams. Sometimes I sit with my eyes closed, my fingers on the keyboard, and let them guide me.
If I write a third part to this series, it will be about character development in historical fiction. But for now, let the voices ring out!
Submitted by Marilyn Donahue
As soon as I knew what I was going to write about, I began with setting, for I instinctively knew that everything has to happen somewhere. The locale I would write about was, of course, the valley that is home to me.
I love our mountains. I love the canyons, cut between hills that seem to roll over upon themselves like bread dough being kneaded. I love the smell of sage, manzanita, yucca, and wild lilac. I love the way morning mist plays over those warm springs that still exist in large numbers beneath the surface of the earth. I love it when winter rains swell the creeks where I waded as a child. I love the sycamores with their spotted, twisted trunks and big leaves that rustle in the wind. And I love the north wind — the Santana –that arrives with a lusty howl and makes the air so clear that I can reach out and trace the mountain shadows with my fingertips.
So did Emmy, my thirteen-year-old heroine. She loved it all as much as I did. I let her live on an island in Lytle Creek, much as my own great-grandmother had lived. I let threatening flood waters pour down the canyon. I sat with her as she picked flowers in the sunshine. I felt her sorrows and her gladness.
Other characters, however, had different feelings about the place they lived. Tawny Crawford, the villainous character from Straight Along a Crooked Road, who was removed from the wagon train, only to appear again on the lawless streets of early San Bernardino, saw the valley as a chance to become powerful. Moss Murphy, a mountain man I had become fond of, saw it as a haven for himself and his Indian wife. Luanna, Emmy’s sister and the heroine of book one, found that the valley was the happy end of her journey.
After I decided who was going to be in the book, I did what all good authors do. I sat back and listened. I wrote pages of description, narrative, and dialogue, and I listened some more. At last I heard my characters speak in their own voices. This is what finding your historical voice is all about — feeling the way into your characters and discovering how different they all sound.
There is no one single historical voice in a book — even though I felt closest to Emmy, my heroine, and heard her voice most often. There are many voices. A unique one for each character.
My characters respond strongly to the place — the setting in which they find themselves. It influences their actions, their decisions, their dreams. Sometimes I sit with my eyes closed, my fingers on the keyboard, and let them guide me.
If I write a third part to this series, it will be about character development in historical fiction. But for now, let the voices ring out!
Submitted by Marilyn Donahue
A Critique Group Surprise
Soon after my first novel, The House at Sutter’s Sands, was published, I was invited to sign books at the local bookstore. A woman approached me, and as we chatted, she told me about her critique group. “We would love to have you come and visit,” she said. “How about next week?”
That sounded great. I had been looking for a group of writers to meet with. And this would be a good chance to see how a critique group worked.
“We’ll have a nice luncheon,” she promised. “One of the writers makes homemade tamales.” My mouth watered as she gave me directions to an address in a nearby town.
On the day of the meeting, I arrived about fifteen minutes early. Cars were already parked up and down both sides of the street. It must be a larger group than I had expected.
When the hostess ushered me into the living room, I saw that folding chairs had been set up in every available space–and they were quickly filling. “I invited a few guests,” she explained. It was 10:00 a.m., and the aroma of steaming tamales drifted in from the kitchen. The hostess smiled. “Lunch will be ready at noon,” she said. “You’ll have plenty of time.”
Time for what? A suspicion began to grow at the back of my mind. Why did these people have notebooks in their laps instead of manuscripts ready to be read? Why was a chair placed in the front of the room?
“We have a special program today,” the hostess was saying. “Our guest, Marilyn Donahue, is going to tell us everything she knows about writing a novel.”
I got to my feet. People clapped. It was a short distance to the chair, but it was long enough for me to pray: Lord, you can see what a mess I’m in. Please put words in my mouth that will open a door for somebody. Let me speak to their hearts.”
And so I began. I talked about what I knew. About getting up at 5:00 a.m. and sitting outside with God and a cup of coffee before I started work for the day. About trial and error and the joy of finding the right word. About my characters and how they interacted. About plot, and voice, and the importance of keeping your seat in the chair.
Later, one writer said, “I felt like you were speaking to our hearts. It opened a door for me, and I can’t wait to get home and start writing.”
I learned that day that we can do unexpected things–with God’s help and guidance. Today, whenever I am about to give a lecture or conduct a workshop, I take time to whisper softly the words that have carried me through many a public appearance:
“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.” (Psalm 19:14)
Marilyn
Soon after my first novel, The House at Sutter’s Sands, was published, I was invited to sign books at the local bookstore. A woman approached me, and as we chatted, she told me about her critique group. “We would love to have you come and visit,” she said. “How about next week?”
That sounded great. I had been looking for a group of writers to meet with. And this would be a good chance to see how a critique group worked.
“We’ll have a nice luncheon,” she promised. “One of the writers makes homemade tamales.” My mouth watered as she gave me directions to an address in a nearby town.
On the day of the meeting, I arrived about fifteen minutes early. Cars were already parked up and down both sides of the street. It must be a larger group than I had expected.
When the hostess ushered me into the living room, I saw that folding chairs had been set up in every available space–and they were quickly filling. “I invited a few guests,” she explained. It was 10:00 a.m., and the aroma of steaming tamales drifted in from the kitchen. The hostess smiled. “Lunch will be ready at noon,” she said. “You’ll have plenty of time.”
Time for what? A suspicion began to grow at the back of my mind. Why did these people have notebooks in their laps instead of manuscripts ready to be read? Why was a chair placed in the front of the room?
“We have a special program today,” the hostess was saying. “Our guest, Marilyn Donahue, is going to tell us everything she knows about writing a novel.”
I got to my feet. People clapped. It was a short distance to the chair, but it was long enough for me to pray: Lord, you can see what a mess I’m in. Please put words in my mouth that will open a door for somebody. Let me speak to their hearts.”
And so I began. I talked about what I knew. About getting up at 5:00 a.m. and sitting outside with God and a cup of coffee before I started work for the day. About trial and error and the joy of finding the right word. About my characters and how they interacted. About plot, and voice, and the importance of keeping your seat in the chair.
Later, one writer said, “I felt like you were speaking to our hearts. It opened a door for me, and I can’t wait to get home and start writing.”
I learned that day that we can do unexpected things–with God’s help and guidance. Today, whenever I am about to give a lecture or conduct a workshop, I take time to whisper softly the words that have carried me through many a public appearance:
“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.” (Psalm 19:14)
Marilyn
Hello, friends and fellow writers! Having my own blog is a new adventure for me. At last I have a place where I can write about writing — and hope some of you will add comments, ask questions, and even contribute by sharing marketing news. I want these columns to be sometimes helpful, often humorous, and always inspiring in the sense that they make YOU want to pick up your pen and get going!
To all of my Schmooze friends: check in with me regularly to let me know what you need in the way of discussions and programs. Share what you are writing about. Ask questions. If I don’t have an immediate answer, I’ll do my best to find one asap.
To members of my writing groups: this blog offers a quick and easy way to spread the good news among other writers. You are already experts in the field. Perhaps you would like to write a guest column!
To Inland Area Writing Project Fellows: drop by and say, “Hello!” Share with us the ways you are using writing in the classroom. Let us hear how your own writing projects are developing.
Since this is my first blog, I want to share an article I wrote recently on
The Importance of Beginnings
The next time you pick up a book and read the first few pages, ask yourself these questions:
– Does the first sentence catch your attention?
– Are the other sentences varied in word length and rhythm?
– Do you feel yourself stepping into the setting and entering the story?
– Do you care what happens next?
If you can answer “Yes” to all four questions, chances are you’re reading a beginning that captures your interest and will lead you into the story. It’s all very well to analyze story openings and to recognize good ones, but it’s a bit more difficult to write one yourself. Here are some rules that I try to follow:
1. Begin at the beginning and not before. Sounds simplistic, doesn’t it? But it’s a fact that inexperienced writers give too much “entry material.” They feel that they have to tell the reader every detail about a scene BEFORE the story starts. For example, if Jessica is going to have an adventure at an archeological dig in Guatemala, the beginning writer will show her packing her bag, buying airline tickets, chatting with her seat companion, adding cream to her coffee, and stepping off the plane in the middle of the season’s worst rainstorm. An experienced writer might keep the rainstorm, but will certainly eliminate the rest, letting Jessica arrive at the dig and begin her adventure.
2. Answer the questions Who? What? When? and Where? (How and why can be faced later.) These four “Ws” can show a character with a problem, arouse the reader’s curiosity, suggest further complications, hint at suspense, and establish place and time. They can help your character get into action as soon as possible, and they leave room for you to slip in other pertinent bits of information.
3. Set the mood. This is where you use those similes and metaphors you have been collecting in your journal — you do keep a journal, don’t you? For example: The swollen clouds cast shifting shadows over the heather clad stones of the moorland. OR Cassandra and Elenore stayed close together as they took their first steps into the cold, slimy water. OR The autumn sunlight filtered through the bare branches, painting patterns, like calligraphy, on the barren ground. If your story opening doesn’t create a mood, rewrite it until it does.
4. Use action and dialogue, but only when they move the story forward. Don’t let your characters move or speak without a reason. Body language and voice can strengthen your story opening — but only when they are realistic and logical.
Here’s an important thing to remember: the beginning stops as soon as the protagonist’s problem is clear. When he/she begins to cope — or not cope — your story’s middle has begun.
Here’s to happy and creative writing! Let me know how you are doing with your current project. If you can’t seem to get started on a project, let me know about that, too.
Marilyn
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