My parents and guests are discussing the Omakis. Most Ticans will only discuss foreigners after a few drinks. Champagne emanates from the room. Father and The Diego discuss their business dealings with Omakis. I know we have to allow some outside business in, but these men and their families are a threat to our national security. If another waves of sickness falls on the island, The Diego, would be blamed on him for having allowed them in. During his weekly radio address, he asks the people to tolerate them as a way of creating prosperity. Our leader echoes this sentiment tonight, but the table still laughs at their sunburns, which never seem to go away. Mother says it is the charitable thing to do to teach them how to make sun cream, then she bursts into laughter. Noor implies after our coffers overflow, we will return them to their homelands, “Tica for the Ticans” they toast.
Mother and The Noor venture to the library making me run to catch them in the next room. They were both Art History majors at Graciella University a few years apart, so Mother is eager to show off our pieces for official approval. The kings of the family collection include a Dali, a Picasso and a Rodin.
“Oh darling, you have a sketch of Gala, how impressive,” Noor fawns.
“Not as impressive, I’m afraid, as a genuine wax vow from a Pope,” Mother replies as hints of envy-iron- tickle my nose.
Wax vows are a popular thing here. Followers of Saint Rocco make wax molds of the parts of their body that the saint has cured, parading them through the streets on his feast day. The first Omakis on the island ran with terror when the body parts waved in the air. One old Omaki woman died on the spot thinking we had turned savage. I think it is a beautiful custom, to have one from a pope must be very lucky.
“Thank you. That one is staying with me when we retire. I do wish people appreciated creativity here and did not think of it as another shade of stupid or lunacy,” Noor says.
“Oh I agree. I hear the mural of The Diegos is beginning. Your husband must be flattered.”
“Well, I am paying for it myself. We want to get the people more involved with art. I am making it my new effort.”
They continue talking about art and lament the lack of local talent. Most Tican artwork is kitschy with subject matters such as fishermen, goat herds and occasional mermaids.
“I am going to tell you something in confidence. It is a matter of national security. Also because your oldest brought up a touchy subject. We need to make sure there are no leaks.”
An annoyed look crosses mother’s face and my nose twitches.
“My husband will be the first Diego to write his political memoirs.”
“Oh, how exciting,” Mother exclaims.
Noor holds up one finger signaling her dominance. “We are bringing in the Icelandic writer your daughter mentioned. How did she know his name?”
“Well,” Mother smooths her hair, “Pluma reads and writes like a woman on fire. I sometimes have to lock the library to get her away.”
“I think that is wonderful. But that does not answer the question.”
I blush at her compliment.
“Pluma reads from all countries. My husband brings her a Omaki paper and there was a big article on Mr. Bondi. She asked for his collection during the holidays.”
“He has won many prizes and he was seeking immunity from his country. We brought him here to write and teach some classes. No one knows about this at the moment. He got into some trouble back home and we do not want any press.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“An accident. They drink like fish over there, I’m surprised they don’t all fall on the ice and crack their heads.”
The men call the women back for a nightcap; I leave my post for bed. I am eager to smell Noor Florianna on my hand. It had been hard not to touch her scent all evening. My sisters, with their petals strewn about, are sleeping in my bed. They must have snuck in after pretending to sleep for Neptuna. I push them over a bit and kneel at my bedside to thank Saint Rocco for a lovely night and to bless my writing. My fingers perch under my nose as I make the sign of the cross. She smells of beer. Breathing again with my thumbs up, I have the strongest flash of my knowing yet.
Beer is from the conditioning treatment she does every night. She is afraid of losing her hair’s luster, the pride of her youth. In my vision, I see her doing this in a deep black marble bathtub, pouring the amber liquid over her head while immersed in white suds. She is afraid of aging-lavender-and longs for her husband not to take another wife. The Diego strolls in, removing his tie, and sits on the ledge of the tub. She smiles for him and prays internally for an heir-sweet grass. They are completely devoted to each other, but they cannot produce an heir and she feels her status is in jeopardy. It always is.
“It would be so very.”-Heathers
The word very is one of the laziest words. It is an adverb that is overused as an adjective. As a teacher I discourage students from using it in essays. It bothered me so much, I would take five points off for its use much to their dismay. They would see is as an easy way to be descriptive. I wanted them to expand their vocabulary.
The room was very cold. Bad
The room was frigid/arctic/freezing/. Better
That house is very ugly. Bad
That house is gaudy/an eyesore/ hideous. Good
Using very is the same as using curse words to be descriptive. It does show a lack of vocabulary and lack of imagination. Frequent users should purchase some vocabulary cards to acquire some new words.
It is better to look after a thousand goats than one curious girl.-Tican Proverb
My name is Pluma de la Oso and I am almost seventeen years old. I was born under the sign of the mermaid on the coldest day ever recorded in Tica. Tonight is a big night in our family. We are hosting a dinner for El Diego, our leader and unofficial king, at our house. My maid, Neptuna, reminds me that I have less than a year before marriage as she washes my hair and rubs an herbal paste on my round face. Mother makes her do my two sisters and my hair before important functions so the photographers can capture us at our best. Ticans obsess over marriage, social standing and our dual religions; one from the Vatican and the other from the sea.
I want to go to college and leave the island. Imagining the scandal as Neptuna puts my indigo hair in rollers makes my eyes bulge at the delight of starting my life. Neptuna scolds me for making my eyes even bigger and I quickly resume my thoughts. Nothing too bohemian, I want to live for something else besides picking the next house I will be trapped in. My ancestral house is on two hundred and thirty-four acres with purple ivy that covers it all the way down from the fourth floor. Papo, my father, is president of the sugarcane association. Mother wants me to be a political wife, maybe even the future 86th Noor. Our leader can take two wives which we call Noor which means light. Neptuna scolds me to sit still as the rollers singe my scalp.
I am looking forward to smelling The Diego’s wife, Noor Florianna. What not even my family knows is that my nose can inhale emotions. Anger smells of iron, love is a rose, sickness a wet dog, and sadness has the most beautiful fragrance, like fresh grass mixed with honey. Mother suffers from tremendous allergies, so I am not questioned about my sniffs. Sometimes I wonder if Mother can smell as well I do. We both have green eyes with a heavy curtains of navy lashes that soften their larger size. We also share the same rounded faces, small red lips, and hourglass figures. Looking at her is like looking in the mirror. She has two inches of height on me, but I am thinner by three pounds. I know this because Mother has been with her seamstress all day lamenting her weight.
Neptuna instructs me to wash my face and I walk to the bathroom as my sisters begin their beautification. Noor Florianna is an interesting woman; she does not walk in the streets yet is in every newspaper and tabloid. We worship her as if she was a minor deity. I imagine her to smell like lavender candies or a mango custard. Mother after tonight she will have her pick of suitors for me. I don’t know how to tell her I would be happiest living in a little room and writing for the rest of my life. She would not even consider it and might even deadbolt the library. There are certain expectations of me. I don’t really want to do anything but leave, but now there does not seem a way out besides running away. Ernest Hemingway says to write one true sentence a day and the only rebellion I really have is the truth. So today my sentence is sometimes your life is not your own. I would still choose to attend the dinner tonight however. Mother requested that I meet in her closet for a private chat and to check my appearance. I enter and she lights a candle for the miniature Saint Rocco stature which lives next to her shoes. When I was a child, the statue frightened me. Its eyes seemed to follow my every move and it was taller than me for a few years. I used to think it grew as I did. Mother checks my appearance.
“You are to make polite small talk if our visitors address you, otherwise just smile. Do not touch your nose for any reason and make sure your sisters are behaving. I expect big things Pluma. This is a chance for us to move into the political circles.”
“Yes Mother,” I say.
Mother smiles critically at me and ties my dress bow a bit tighter than necessary. She is still upset about the three pounds.
Around the dinner hour, El Diego’s motorcade pulls inside our gate. Please let me be perfect for him I implore Saint Rocco, adjusting the flowers sown into my hair as I watch from the upstairs window. In a swift, fluid movement, his long legs emerge from the stretched car, then he stands to his full seven feet. His green eyes flash as the evening sun hits his face. His wife Florianna comes out next. I count ten pleats on her purple dress and marvel at the height of her bun. My nostrils flare in anticipation.
I fly down the stairs to take my place in the main entrance hall. Mother shoots me an annoyed glance for not setting the best examples for my sister. Papo opens the door and moves a strand of the ivy out-of-the-way, my two little sisters and I curtsy, then present Noor Florianna with orchids, the same as those in our hair; they match her dress as we’ve planned. My hand brushes hers just enough to pick up her essence, but not arouse suspicion.
El Diego shakes our hands and pulls a flower from behind Clarka’s ear much to her delight. The youngest, Ine, has a coin pulled from behind her curls. He pauses before me.
“Ah, yes, Pluma. How are you? Your father tells me you are quite the writer.”
“Yes, I do like to write and read. I’ve discovered an Icelandic writer…”
“Good, good,” he interrupts. “We need a real writer on the island. Too many critics here with nothing to do besides stare at the Omakis.”
Papo guides our guest to the formal dining room. I had his attention for less than a minute and could not detect a scent. I press my lips together and remind myself I have the Noor’s scent on my hand for later. Under calmer circumstances I can just smell the air to get information, but the excitement is throwing me off. Neptuna summons me to the kitchen where we eat a miniature version of the adult’s feast: braised goat in pickled bloodberry sauce and the traditional five side dishes. Ine and Clarka try to convince Neptuna that The Diego is magical. They hold up the torca and flower as proof that he can conjure objects out of thin air. I agree he is more magical than Papa Christmas. Once we have eaten more than Mother would usually allow us, Neptuna leaves me in the kitchen as she leaves to prepare my sisters for bed. I assume my favorite vantage point by the staircase, to see how the visit is going. In Tica, it is considered good luck to house a chinchilla under the main staircase of the home. Any noise can easily be dismissed as being made by the creature. I make sure to feed it plenty of sugar when no one is looking so that it likes me.
Dorothy Parker wrote a single draft for all her pieces. Think about that. The level of focus and precision needed to pull that off is not human. For my first book, Mermaid, I wrote without an outline. It was a rambling mess and I hired a grad school editor to help me organize after a year. She suggested an outline and I scoffed. Outlines hindered creativity. Words need to pour out onto the page without a rigid structure. Writing is very tangent oriented, no need to stop a good idea. I argued with her and was actually a bit offended in the process. I knew my process the best. Then something occurred to me the other day walking my dog. Maybe an outline allows you to be more creative precisely because you have boundaries to push against.
If it had not been for Catholic school, I would not have thought it scandalous to listen to Pearl Jam, stand up for myself, or forget to say my prayers. The structure is there to focus and preserve intentions. I began drafting an outline that night. The outline is six pages so far. Each day I work on it hoping to start actually writing soon. It is an experiment for me to see which is better suited to my process. Gone are the days though, when I would just vomit on the page and clean it up later on. Until then, I will continue to write in the sand and hope something of mine will finally be published.
Do you outline?
I have been writing a book for what seems like half of my adult life. The hardest part has been revising just as other writers warned me. I doubted it at first, especially when struggling to master dialogue and tense symmetry. I have sent my book out twice and instead of a ticker tape parade, I received big fat no thank yous that varied from the apologetic to the terse. A bit crestfallen, I put my book Mermaid away periodically to live life and gather strength to work on it again. A few weeks ago, I started seriously researching and taking classes on writing. Having invested so much time in my work, I knew I had to push to save it. When the Miami Book Fair set up, I took a few classes. I was able to understand how I had been going so terribly wrong. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I would like to share my revising list with you. Please comment and let me know if anything (or nothing) has been helpful. Have a wonderful time committing literary murder.
1. Kill overly descriptive adjectives.
I have a tendency to be overly descriptive with colors. In one draft I said emerald instead of green and coffee colored instead of brown. This says to the reader that you are trying too hard. Stick to basics in an almost Hemingway direction, there is no shame in being descriptive just try to keep it direct.
2. Laugh at yourself.
Your writing is a beautiful product of your creativity, but as you evolve, you may see how young you once were. I find myself rolling my eyes at my past mistakes like heavy-handed dialogue.
We will get better.
3. Cut continuous exposition.
There is a tendency in all of us budding writers to tell and not show. Your points will get cross through details not meandering prose about the setting or character. Sometimes a thought, physical motion or a spoken word is more powerful than five descriptive paragraphs. Cutting has been painful for me and I push myself to ask, “Does this really need to be here? Is this moving the story forward? Cheesy as it sounds the usual answer is no.
4. Condense to about 250 pages.
In my research this seems to be the magic number. Not sure why it is, but just putting it out here.
5. Highlight bits you absolutely love.
Just because you have to cut things does not mean they are gone forever. I keep a computer document open wherever I cut anything called, aptly enough, “cut bits”. If you really love a line or word, highlight it and keep it in the back of your mind. Not everything has to be tossed.
6. Watch tense.
This is one of my Achilles heel. I will switch tenses throughout a page. Therefore, to counteract this, I bring intense awareness and scan the page several times to fix errors. Sometimes being aware of your tendencies is enough to fix them.
7. Work on between 10-20 pages daily/nightly.
The average attention span is twenty minutes and I find that ten pages of heavy marking I want to just zone out. After I reach my mental anguish limit of editing, I walk the dog or look at Vogue or read the New York Times. You might want to push for more, but break it up throughout the day. Otherwise, you might actually resent your writing and feel oppressed. However, you know yourself best and if you are on a tear, ride it out.
8. Nothing wrong with said or ask.
Answered, responded, inquired, beseeched –all of these stand out as we have been accustomed to said and ask. Anything else sticks out and thereby adds unnecessary scrutiny to our word choice. The reader needs to be drawn into our words, not our word choice.
9. Consider cutting the parts without dialogue.
My paid editor is a playwright and she tells me to consider just having scenes of dialogue and action.
10. Write a post it with your theme.
As an English teacher, I direct my students to constantly seek evidence to substantiate the theme. If you do not know what your theme is, maybe sit down and decide upon one now. My theme is an independent girl can grow into a strong woman only if she is fearless.
11. Make notes to yourself in the margin.
I write notes as if I am speaking to myself. I do not count the spelling and I make them as detailed as possible.
12. Keep sentences simple.
I teach fancy grammar, but sometimes a period is equal to a semicolon.
13. Rearrange scenes.
When you are cutting exposition, it unpeels a layer for further action. If a scene is great but does not work in the new context, consider tweaking it and putting it into a new area. I did this twice in my twenty-page limit today and I love the new direction.
14. Circle overused or questionable words.
My trouble words are chaos, drink, blink strange and observe. I circle them and look at a thesaurus.
15. Cross out lightly.
Some words, scenes and characters are salvageable. No need to throw everything out. I once had a friend go through an existential crisis and throw most clothes out of her closet. A few weeks later, she realized she had to buy new clothes thus defeating the purpose of her whole escapade. We may need things later when they make more sense.
16. You cannot type and edit at the same time.
I print out my work as seen in the picture and mark by hand. A recent workshop teacher suggested to do that and I wrote out my last blog post in my notebook. I saw this at work when I scored my second editor’s pick at my other blog at Open Salon. I know the difference now between trying out thoughts and formalizing them through typing. I go through my hand written pages and highlight or make notes. I think this really makes all the difference in the world.
If anyone wants to talk about writing, my email is firstname.lastname@example.org.