Technical writers or non fiction writers scribble to pay the bills and for the love of the analytical or the exercise of truth or deception.

Fiction authors write to create their world or escape it.

Whichever kind of writer, it's all about staying alive.

The Writing Life

Like most writers, I have a love of reading and the power of words. When I was younger, I read everything I could get my hands on, but I don’t consider myself well read. I consumed books like a starved person, so quickly I hardly knew what I had read. By some strange process of osmosis, I learned from everything I read, but I cannot give you an erudite discussion of characters, plots, or authors. I can only tell you it’s lodged some where in the core of my being and informs my writing.

In addition to reading, I’ve spent a life time writing---from that first elementary school composition to my college days when I studied French literature and wrote explications de texte. Along the way, I fell into technical writing--to put food on the table and pay bills. In the 90s, I had the good fortune to take a dialog class with Sol Stein, former owner of Stein & Day publishers in New York and a prolific author. That led to his California-based writers’ group, Chapter One. It was a rigorous, ego-bruising experience, but I was intent on learning everything I could about fiction writing. A few years ago, I also had the good fortune to study with another writer, Louella Nelson, an experienced romance writer and teacher of fiction writing. She provided a different perspective and balance to my writing.

I'm currently editing my novel, Laughing Hawk, a mainstream, Sixties era novel.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Show Me the Voice Contest

Here is my submission of the first 250 words of my novel for Brenda Drake's Show Me the Voice critique blogfest. I look forward to reading all the entries and getting feedback on mine.

Name:  Linda Katmarian
Title:  Laughing Hawk
Genre:  Mainstream, Literary

1964


     "Hey, you! Pink slip!" the hall monitor yelled.

     Elizabeth tugged her hair free from the shoulder strap of her purse and kept moving down the hall, past the library and the trophy showcase toward the main entrance. She buttoned her jacket against the gray March cold that was awaiting her outside.

     "Stop."

     Elizabeth fingered the envelope stuck between her sketchbook and a history text, cradled her books tighter to her chest, walked faster. Maybe the airless classroom and the smell of damp ink on the mimeographed exam papers had gotten to her. Or the chalk that tapped, then screeched at the blackboard. Perhaps it was just the long winter of the heart since Kennedy was assassinated.

     "I'll turn you in, Lizzie!"

     "No, you won't." Elizabeth felt his stare follow her. Blue-eyed baby boy is watching my ass.

     "Hey, hey, Lizzie. When are you going to show me your etchings?" The hall monitor's voice echoed through the foyer. "How come you won't draw me? I'd hold still for you."

     Elizabeth burst through the school door.

     "Stuck-up! Next time you better have a pass."

     She pulled out the envelope addressed to Northwestern University, held it like a winning raffle ticket. Only a few weeks to eighteen and the dollars grandfather had willed her. Then the money was hers and Mama could not say no.

     Elizabeth walked home, a mile through the older, gentrified neighborhood of two-story monstrosities whose porches bellied up to the sidewalk to the new area of smaller, less distinctive houses that hung back from the curb.
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3 comments:

  1. This is quite nice, and I like the imagery. I have read several places, however, that starting with dialogue (especially not that of the MC) is frowned upon by some people. Just something to consider :)

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  2. Great tension, through use of voice and confrontation.

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  3. I like this excerpt--there's definitely voice here! ;)

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