Kickstart Your Novel — Write Your Book

 

Hello friends – It’s been a long time coming, but I have finally published my passion book! While I’m still a busy bee on my fiction work, (and excited to be on the home run with a fictional exploration of the sexbot world!) I’m also very pleased to produce a non-fiction book on the craft of novel writing. The behind-the-scenes of writing is something I love to write about, and Kickstart Your Novel is just that.

I’ve been absent from writing for about 5 years with an illness, but have finally knocked that on the head. It has been devastating as a writer to have had the ability to read and write whisked away from me — but it’s equally exciting to experience the gift of having it returned to me, and I have returned with renewed love for words, the writing life, and a desire to share my knowledge with anybody who has a desire to receive it, so, with that said I will share the introduction of my new book with you:

Dear writer,

Welcome to Kickstart Your Novel. As an author and teacher of writing, I know that the desire and passion to write is sometimes not enough to get a novel written; the road from idea to manuscript can be confusing and daunting. Kickstart Your Novel is a grassroots, simple to access, concise guide to the tools I find the most useful for getting first drafts on the page.

Every writer has their own set of tips and tricks that work for them, and I encourage you to take from here what is most useful for you and your writing habits and come back to the rest if and when you need to. Whether you’re writing for therapy, to get published or just for fun, my mission is to help you lay the foundations of your work so that you can then progress to the next phase of rewriting, editing and polishing your novel.

The important thing is to get your words on the page — then you’ve got something to work with. The expression ‘you can’t edit a blank page’ is where we begin.

Julie Proudfoot,

Kickstart Your Novel is available as an Ebook and downloadable here: Kickstart Your Novel

Creating space in writing.

In the excerpt below, I love the space created by a simple change in focus. The grandmother pauses within the story to brush flies from the child’s face, and we just know there is something wrong! Love it.

“The little granddaughter came, picking her way through the long grass. She told the grandmother that the new baby was going to have a bath and she was going to have a bath as well. Her mother had said so.

‘Is mother going to have a bath too?’ the grandmother, brushing flies away from the child’s face, asked.

‘Yes,’ the child told the grandmother. ‘All, her and me and baby.’ The grandmother was surprised….the baby and the granddaughter had been bathed.”

(P116. The Orchard Thieves, Elizabeth Jolley 1995)

Truman Capote’s Violets

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Snatching her hand, he pulled her along with him, and they ran until they reached a side street muffled and sweet with trees. As they leaned together, panting, he put into her hand a bunch of violets, and she knew, quite as though she’d seen it done, that they were stolen. Summer that is shade and moss traced itself in the veins of the violet leaves, and she crushed their coolness against her check. (p.81)

I have recently written about violets, and violets that have poignant reason for being in the book, and this little violet moment in Truman Capote’s Summer Crossing is a reminder that I have missed an opportunity to slow the moment down, and bring attention to what is going on in the minds of characters – I think I might now go back to it and go a little deeper.

Up until these sentences quoted below from the book, there has been mostly action and words that move the story on, and then suddenly there are these descriptive sentences, waxing and waning and slowing down, and you just know that there is something coming, a point in the book in which everything changes, and sure enough it does. With one short sentence (that I haven’t copied here) the lives of the characters change, and without all this slowing down and going deeper that comes just prior, I think the reader would feel like it had all come way too suddenly. As it is, it’s a lovely sliding into the moment, the reader eases into it, and then, there it is, the moment we waited for. ‘…heat’s stale breath yawned in their faces…’ too good.

It was wilting out on Lexington Avenue, and especially so since they’d just left an air-conditioned theatre; with every step heat’s stale breath yawned in their faces. Starless nightfall closed down like a coffin lid, and the avenue, with its newsstands of disaster and flickering, fly buzz sounds of neon, seemed an elongated, stagnant corpse.

A roar from underground echoed through her, for she was standing on top of a subway grating: deep in the hollows below she could hear a screeching of iron wheels, and then, nearer by, there came a fiercer noise: car horns clashed, fenders bumped, tires careened! And she whirled around to see a driver cursing Clyde, who was jayhopping across the street as fast as his legs would go. (p.80)

A short note on Christina Stead’s sentences.

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I’m reading A Christina Stead Reader, by Jean B Read, and note the long, rhythmic sentences that give the sense of riding waves into a sandy romantic beach.

Henry had discovered long ago that his fish were temperamental. On certain days, quite apart from the occasional sad twinges lent them by soot, fog or nightfall, the fish appeared to change colour, hourly, and even momently, due to secret and invisible movements of the water, or its animalculae, or to the filtration of light through the plankton, or to the thoughts of those finned images themselves. Sometimes, their bars and mottlings, their scars, freckles and wine marks would glow and burn, redden, blacken, glower: sometimes, the fish would turn paler and the outlines of their beauties fade.

A Month at the Beach: Queenscliff Literary Festival.

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If you know me well, you’ll know that there’s only one thing I love more than reading and writing, and that’s talking about reading and writing. Last month (May) I was lucky enough to be invited to speak at the fantastic Queenscliff Literary Festival, and I can’t say enough how wonderful the event was. Our chairperson, Alice Barker, managed our event expertly and talentedly, having clearly read both my, and my fellow author, Emily Bitto’s, books – which is not always the case at events. Alice put excellent questions to us that allowed fantastic and vigorous discussion on character, and setting, theme, the act of writing, and publishing. As a result, the audience was keen to get involved and also put forward great questions during the panel with follow-up conversations during the signings that were engaging and fun.

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The Queenscliff Literary Festival is a little different to other festivals in that it runs only on weekends and runs across every weekend in May. So although authors don’t get an opportunity to spend time with all authors, the events are not crammed in.  Often there isn’t enough time between events at festivals, but at Queenscliff authors aren’t hurried out the door to make room for the next panel, but given as much time as is desired for chat between authors and readers alike. And can I side-step for a moment and go a little gaga over the festival setting. Do you know Queenscliff and Point Lonsdale towns? It’s a gorgeous place: beaches, cafes, art, lighthouses, lookouts, peers, ferry across to Sorrento with dolphins alongside! It’s a gorgeous place. It’s a rare thing to be given the opportunity to indulge in books and words in such a lovely setting with people just as enthusiastic about literature as I am, with an engaged and generous crowd, host and bookseller. Thank you to The Bookshop at Queenscliff, Marylou Gilbert and Alice Barker.

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Stoner, John Williams, the describer scriber.

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I’m on the last pages of Stoner, by John Williams, and I’m thinking the thing I will be taking from my reading and learning from, is his attention to descriptions. I could have plucked out any number of passages, but this one of Stoner’s wife, Edith, is a cracker. Edith’s character grows out of the words and you pretty much know who you’re dealing with, just from the description. What a sad sad thing that Williams passed before his book became the success it is now. To not know it. I hope he’s looking down on it and enjoying it all.

In her fortieth year, Edith Stoner was as thin as she had been as a girl, but with a hardness, a brittleness, that came from an unbending carriage, that made every movement seem reluctant and grudging.The bones of her face had sharpened, and the thin pale skin was streathched upon them as upon a framework, so that the lines upon the skin where taut and sharp. She was very pale, and she used a great deal of powder and paint in such a way that it appeared she daily composed her own features upon a blank mask. Beneath the dry hard skin, her hands seemed all bone; and they moved ceaselessly, twisting and plucking and clenching even in her quietest moments.

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Reading to put your brain in the right state – Steven Carroll, The Time We Have Taken

When I’m working on something, I like to read from any of my favourite books to put my brain in the right frame of mind. You know, slow it down a bit and find a rhythm. I pick up a book and open to any page and read. Today’s read was from Steven Carroll’s The Time We Have Taken pg 132  (Fourth Estate paperback 2007)

You can see the influence from one of Steven Carroll’s favourite authors, Proust, in the long sentences, the rhythm, and the use of the senses.

The smell of previous-night’s-beer is unmistakable. And with the whiff of old beer she is simultaneously seeing Vic falling through the front door, stumbling through the house, and that old familiar feeling of wretchedness is upon her once again, and the memory of that wretched madness that swelled her heart to the point of exploding all those years ago is now more than a memory. It’s a smell. And smells make things happen all over again. And she knows she doesn’t want these memories again, but knows they won’t go till the smell does. Then she sees further signs of disruption, even as she’s dwelling on this business of smell and weight and love and why it had to be like that. For she has entered Michael’s old bedroom, which has changed little since he left, and noticed immediately that the bed has been disturbed. Slept in. And with the observation comes an involuntary shiver. A half-hearted attempt has been made to make it, a quilt thrown over the bed almost contemptuously. Brazenly. And as this strangers perfume– which she knows to be a common, cheap scent that young girls these days go for — as this strangers perfume mingles with the sight of the shabbily remade bed, the word ‘tart’ comes to her again. And she is convinced that Michael has not only sneaked back into the house when she was not there like some creature with guilt written all over his face, he has dragged a tart back into their house, her house, with him. And she knows straight away that this is not the act of her Michael, upon whom she rested the weight of the love she was left with (when Vic couldn’t carry it any more), her Michael who had always told her that her dresses were just right when the street sneered. No, it wasn’t him, but some other Michael with a tart in his ear.

Jesus Sandals and Anchovette, by Joanna Atherfold Finn

 

 

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Delicate and sweet writing from the point-of-view of an eight-year-old child, but what is really great about this piece is that it’s written in second person. I haven’t read a second person story before this that isn’t in the form of letter or diary. (If you know of any, comment below I’d love to read it) In this instance it gives the reader a strong sense of being right with the character and somehow helps to put you in the mind of the child. There’s nothing bad to say about this; it’s gorgeous, a must read.

This story is from the Amanda Lohrey Selects series at Spineless Wonders Publishing.

There is so much information about the little girl (and the family) to be gleaned from these few opening sentences.

You look out the back window of the lime-green Galant to the curved struts of the rusting balcony, the top step where you grinned (gap-toothed) for your first-day-of-school photo, the pine tree with its dying centre. Behind the gate is your cubby house with foundations so deep it can’t be moved. Next door, Mr Carter is spraying his cumquat trees. You picture Mrs Carter inside sitting at the kitchen table doing her crossword, and Jesus hanging from his cross, observing her forlornly. She has told you he is all-knowing. You wonder why he doesn’t drop a hint now and then.

The sentences are dripping with descriptions of colour and images,

A row of blue-headed pins protruded from her pillowy lips. Her smooth forehead bobbed as you revolved in tiny increments.

and descriptions that can pull you back right there with the little girl. We know where they are even before it’s made clear.

He leads you through glass doors with his hand clamped around the back of your neck, past nicotine-yellow tables, over kaleidoscope carpet. A row of men are perched on stools, their thick arms bent across blue towels, their hairy legs dangling. Their hair is shrinking into their skulls. They are stunted and swollen like the puffer fish you poke with a stick on the beach.

 

 

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