Clichés

I follow Kathy Temean's Writing and Illustrating blog. She had a great post on clichés and how to avoid them. She was blogging specifically about clichéd phrases, but I realized that we have clichéd plot devices and themes in children's writing as well.

I think we all have a list of plot clichés that set our teeth on edge. However, I think others tend to slide under our radar because we identify with that particular idea. I'm going to list some of my least favorite clichés, and I hope you'll leave some of yours! It's always good to note what's been done to death so we can avoid it in our own writing.

So, a few clichés:

1) The snarky narrator. I see this a lot in YA. Not to say that I don't like a unique voice, but I get tired of a character that is unique only because of her snarky comments. Yes, most YA protagonists are at odds with their world or life, but there are many different ways to express that.

2) You just have to believe. Often in life, that's true. Which makes it even harder to write about without sounding trite. But... it's a common theme and an even more common phrase. I was just listening to a book recording. It was a terrific book,with a great world and unique characters. At one point in the story, the main characters realized they just had to believe. (And they really did.) Overall, the author handled the situation very well, but I have to admit, when we got to that point, I was thinking to myself, Please don't say 'we just have to believe'. They did- but the story was so great I forgave them.

3) The shy, quiet hero/ine who gets the hottie because the author isn't hot and wanted a happy ending for such a situation ... so she wrote it. I am not poking fun at these stories! It's a universal theme, and we love rooting for the underdog. I'm writing such a story and believe me, it's going to have a happier ending than any of my personal experiences ever did. : ) But! As some kind but firm Slushies pointed out a while ago, there had better be a reason that the underdog wins. And "because I (the author) want her to" doesn't count. I believe the exact critique was, "I know I should care about this person, but I really don't." God bless the underdogs, but give the readers a reason to root for them other than their underdog status.

So help me here. What are cliches that you've seen recently? I'd love to know.

And ... this is so fun, but I'm only posting it because I know you'll never use it in your writing. It's a cliché finder! Please. Use. Responsibly.

Festival of the Book- First Pages

You should know right away that my note-taking skills are quite inferior to Michelle's. But I'll give you the best review I can of Dancing With the Manuscripts- How to Hook an Editor on the First Page, sponsored by the Moseley Writers. Lucy Russell moderated. Jennifer Riesmeyer Elvgren, Deborah M. Prum, Fran Cannon Slayton, and Andy Straka offered feedback.

Here are the highlights:

• Fuzzy beginnings are a don't. Beginnings with a vague sense of place fail to grab. There had better be a clear sense of place and time.
• Don't switch temporal perspective. I don't mean POV or headhopping between various characters (well known mistakes). Jumping between the past and present isn't a good idea in the first page of your work. Relating the past, jumping the present, revisiting the past, and then jumping back to the present is awkward. More than that, however, it fails to anchor your reader in your story.
• Don't open with tons of description. One story began with detailed description of an object. A paragraph's worth. We went quite a while before we met the character. Again, your job is to anchor the reader in your story and to your characters, not to an object.
• Don't surprise your reader with unexpected details. A few stories started one way and then dropped in a jarring detail. One story began in a very homey way and then broke out the fairy dust. Another story's description hinted at century's old atmosphere and then showed us a baseball cap. The changes didn't create interest- they caused confusion.

There were other issues, but those dealt mainly with the mechanics of writing that you know. I think the comments reminded me most of goslings. You know how just-hatched goslings imprint on the first thing they see? Think of your readers as hatchlings ready to imprint. Your first pages need to imprint them on the right character, the right world, and the right conflict. Use clear language, and pick the right scene so that your goslings can make sense of the world you've dropped them into.

*Sorry about the wonky formatting, folks, I ran out of patience trying to fix it...

First Page Friday, #4

Hi everyone! We've got another round of First Page Fridays*. Please leave our lovely participant your feedback in the comments section.

Burning. Wherever I looked, everything was burning. I peered out from underneath the wagon as armed men unfurled swords and threw spears. Their shining metal armor caught the sun’s rays and blinded me.

Blood spilt on the ground, stinking in the heat. I closed my eyes and tried to think of peace while shutting out the horrors of battle around me. I pulled my legs to my chest and made myself as small as possible, hoping to shrink into nothingness to escape this place.

Something dripped on my hand, hot and sticky. I gazed down and saw a patch of red. A gasp caught in my throat. Biting my lip, I looked up at the slats of the wagon’s bed. Between the cracks, I saw a body slumped on top of them. Blood seeped from a wound in the man’s chest and fell to the sand at my feet. I scooted away from it, faintness clouding my thoughts.

Certain names I heard repeated over and over again, unfamiliar terms. Troy, Hector, Agamemnon. Who, what, did these names mean? I knew nothing of them.

The hollow sound of something hitting the ground, followed by the sickly sweet scent of poison, assaulted me. I peeked open my eyes and saw the contorted face of the caravan leader; an arrow protruded from his back. He no longer breathed.

But I still did, though probably not for long.

Screams rang out around me, and I cowered behind the wagon’s wooden wheel. Donkeys squealed as men slaughtered them. Gold jingled in heavy purses, and wood crackled amidst flames.

Adonai, protect me.

The entire caravan was lost, and most of its passengers had been killed. Soldiers now herded up the scant number of women into a tight ring. Any remaining men had swords thrust into their bellies while I grimaced and fought the instinct to gag.

“That one down there.” A man pointed at me. “Under the wagon. Bring her.”

A bronzed and bloodied face turned towards me, and fear gripped my heart. I scrambled out from my hiding spot and sprang to my feet. Before me lay a vast wilderness and beyond, the sea. The azure waters called to me, and I ran towards them.

Footsteps pounded the earth behind me, accompanied by laughter. But soon, my own panting drowned out all other sounds from my ears.

My sandal caught on a rock, and I tumbled to the ground. I landed hard on my back, and for a moment, could not breathe. My mouth worked and my lungs gasped for air, but nothing came. Had I been speared? Was this death?

*If you're interested in submitting your own pages, see this post for information.

First Page (next) Friday

Sorry everyone, I'm a bit behind and this week we don't have a non-Slushie entry.

(Holy smoke, that was a good kiss! Not mine, alas, but I had The More, the Merrier on in the background and was temporarily distracted. I love black and white movies, and I think I now have a tiny crush on Joel McCrea.)

But I digress.

All that to say, if you have first pages you'd like critiqued next week, please send them to us. Rules and info here.

And since I'll feeling a bit random, why don't you share some of your favorite movies? You can learn so much about folks from their favorite movies.

An apology and something funny

Guess who forgot until yesterday that she was supposed to post the next round of First Page Fridays?

She's tall, loves revision, and has been working late the past few weeks.* I was so tired this morning that I forgot my coffee.

You get the idea. Rather than give you more excuses, I hope to earn your forgiveness by the following:

The Seven Stages of Receiving Critiques

Please go read it and have a good laugh. Then come back and tell me where you are in the critique process and how you handle it.

*Yes, my apartment looks like I've been working late the past few weeks.

Revision Wednesday, #3

Our intrepid contributor Andrea has submitted a revision based on Friday's critiques. Please let her know what you think!

Inside room 424 of the cardiac wing at Charleston Memorial Hospital, Jorge Mendoza hung tenuously between life and death. The sixty-seven-old patient’s chest heaved with each uneven breath and his olive skin appeared sallow and sunken under the dim lights. Just five feet away, the massive silhouette of a man lurked in the shadows as Jorge lay vulnerable and alone.

With the stealth of a thief in the night, the stalker crept to the bed and covered the patient’s nose and mouth with his hand. Jorge jolted awake. His right eye scanned the room while the other drooped as the result of a recent stroke. When he looked up, Jorge met the menacing blue gaze of his attacker.

“Don’t scream.” the stranger warned. “Blink if you understand.”

Jorge closed and opened his eye, acknowledging the order.

“Do you know why I am here?“ The stranger asked while lifting his hand away.

Jorge lay for a moment, gasping for breath, assessing his opponent. “You’re here to kill me.”

The visitor raised an eyebrow, “How perceptive.“ Then he slowly retrieved a needle from his pocket and walked to the I.V. bag.

Jorge glanced at the clock on the wall, it was 12 a.m. Midnight rounds had just begun, “I know who sent you.” He revealed, hoping to stall long enough for a nurse to interrupt the assassination.

The stranger glanced over his shoulder at the patient, a slight smile forming on the corner of his mouth, “I know. That’s why I’m here. “ He taunted. “You’ll never get the chance to share your knowledge with anyone else.” Then he turned and injected a substance into the tube. “Despite what you may think, my kind can show mercy. Your end will be painless.”

Jorge wanted to scream but he knew it was futile. His attacker would overtake him before anyone could make it to the room. All he could do was watch in terror as the stranger advanced on him.

Now the stranger was so close that his hot breath brushed Jorge’s ear as he whispered, “I have a message for you. It was sent from the one you tried to destroy.”

Jorge looked into his adversary’s eyes with unyielding resolve. “I’m not surprised he sent you to do his bidding. Coward!”

The stranger clapped his hand over Jorge’s mouth. “The message is …His secret will die with you. But before you leave this world, my master wants you know the game of hide and seek is over. ”

Jorge’s eyes widened and he struggled under his attacker’s grip. Could he know where it is?

The stranger’s smile contradicted the anger in his eyes, “Now don’t struggle, it will only cause the poison to kick in faster. Since the end is near you may as well tell me where you’re hiding it. Otherwise, we will have to begin our search in the home of your grieving widow. ”

In an instant, Jorge grasped the true horror of the situation. ”My wife has nothing to do with this. You must believe me.” He stammered.

“It doesn’t matter. We know you possess what is needed to win the war. There is no other way you could have known my master’s identity.”

Jorge felt a surge of adrenaline, his heart fluttered and his breathing quickened, the poison was taking effect. He closed his eyes, his thoughts a mixture of sadness and regret. He should not have interfered. He had unwittingly left a trail of breadcrumbs to an ancient secret his family had protected for centuries. .

Suddenly, a bright light flashed above the bed and an angel appeared opposite the stranger.

The visitor’s steely eyes widened with recognition, “Harut, it’s been too long. I knew you’d come running if one of your sheep was in trouble. Too bad it’s too late.”

Jorge coughed and wheezed as he looked up at the angel, “I’m sorry my friend, I should have listened to you.”

Harut stroked Jorge’s salt and pepper locks, “It is I who failed you my friend.” He said, casting his eyes toward the stranger. Then the angel rolled his shoulders revealing a set of sprawling white wings, “Abbadon, I will kill you for this!”

The stranger examined his nails looking almost amused, “The appointed time is near my brother. We’ll face off soon enough. Then we shall see which of us lives and which of us dies.”

Harut’s dark eyes narrowed, “Look at yourself! Walking around in sheep’s clothing pretending to be a man. The very thing you fell from grace over. Hypocrite! You embrace what you hate.”

Abbadon scowled at Harut, “Don’t push me. There are no boundaries in war and I will do what is necessary to win,“ he cautioned. “ I may be in sheep’s clothing but this disguise got me close enough to kill one of your flock-- Shepherd!”

“This is not over!” Harut promised.

A smile flickered in Abbadon’s eyes, “It appears to be for your human.” Then he turned and exited the room.

The heart monitor skipped a beat and Jorge’s breathing quickened. He was dying and nothing could stop it. Soledad, my beloved daughter, he thought. Now she will have to carry my cross.

Harut retracted his wings as he looked tenderly at his charge, “I wish you would not have interfered. Now I cannot help you my friend. “

A tear fell from Jorge’s eye. “I had to try for my daughter’s sake.“ He coughed, “I failed you. I’ve failed us all,” he uttered through his last breath. At that moment, the line on the monitor went flat and the sound of emergency buzzers overtook the silence.