EDITING TIPS FOR ASPIRING AUTHORS

I learned the hard way. After I submitted my first novel to a publisher, I thought I was finished—really finished. I was already a professional writer. Didn’t need any more help.

Boy I was wrong. I needed help in areas I didn’t even know about and the publisher let me know that. At the same time, I saw this as a gift; a gift of new knowledge. I wanted to have the power to fix my defective grammar—without relying on others and critique partners. So I enrolled in an online grammar refresher course and read additional educational materials on grammar.

I wanted to share my knowledge with other aspiring writers. There is the creative aspect that drives writers to express their ideas, but it is so important to make sure that your writing conforms to the very complicated framework of English grammar. I believe learning to write never ends—it’s an ongoing journey. I’m sure there will still be things I’ve done wrong after I completed polishing up my grammar for my novel.

To prevent, or lower the chances of getting bombarded by surprises after submitting your first baby to the publisher, I would like to share a few editing tips. Things you may not know needed correction or attention. You’ll be saving yourself a lot stress--before your work lands on the editor’s desk.

Don’t let body parts act on their own. You’d think you’ve seen these written in other novels.

Example: “His fingers raked his hair.” It sounds like his fingers are detached from his body.
The correct way is “He raked his fingers through his hair.”

This I didn’t know about and I have written so many sentences with these wandering body parts. Keep going over this rule as you edit. I had to go over it many times until it was drilled in my head.

Reference: http://deboradale.com/blog1/2009/01/28/she-tossed-her-head-as-his-eyes-roamed-her-body/

Keep out details that have nothing to do with the scene or story. It slows the pace. However, you can be creative and make those detailed statements having to do with a scene.

For example, in my Living with the Ex novel, Karina welcomes Naomi into the townhouse when she brings in her luggage. (Karina is Naomi’s ex’s sister. Karina and her ex live together in the townhouse.) Naomi notices Karina is wearing a Minnie Mouse T-shirt and has her hair up in braids.
I sat back rubbing my chin. I’m thinking the editor or reader is going to say, “Who cares if she’s wearing a Minnie Mouse T-shirt. How is that related to the story?” I could either eliminate this, or be really creative. Give a reason why the Minnie Mouse T-shirt should be in the story.
And I changed it to: Karina opened the door, wearing a big Minnie Mouse T-shirt. Her hair was in two braids pinned up over the crown of her head. She drew a warm smile, probably convincing Naomi that they were in Disneyland. Right … she wished.

Now it has something more to do with the scene. Naomi’s nervous. She’s about to face her ex-boyfriend in the townhouse. Karina’s Minnie Mouse T-shirt and braids made her feel for a fleeting second that she was in Disneyland--where you’re happy and relaxed. It took her away from reality, knowing she had to face someone cold, someone who’d broken her heart, and someone who was furious about being in a reality TV show with her. Now if any of you were in Naomi’s situation, you’d probably rather be in Disneyland too!

Make sure your words are spelled in either American or British English. I ran into a few words I’ve written in British English. Such as “towards.” Sometimes you see it spelled “towards” or “toward.” I’m glad I had caught this and googled “towards vs. toward.” I came upon a link that states “towards” was British English, and “toward” was American English.

Reference: http://bluepencilediting.blogspot.com/2008/01/handy-hint-toward-vs-towards.html

Keeping Author intrusion out when you come upon these phrases:
“He noticed that Jack was nervous.”
Instead: “Jack faced him, eyes widened.”

“She was shocked when seeing him with nothing on …”
Instead: “Omigod. He was in her room naked!”

“He thought he was safe …”
Instead: “He was safe.” or “Safe at last.”

“Ivo knew he had to tell her that he didn’t sleep with Bianca.”
Instead: “Naomi had to know he didn’t sleep with Bianca.”

This is in Ivo’s POV. Doesn’t it make you feel more connected with the character’s POV and feelings?

Take your time getting familiar with these tips. There’ll be more to come soon on my next blog.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF AN AUTHOR: REASEARCHING GRANITE COUNTERTOP COMPANIES

Today was one of those days of embarrassment and isolation. I am writing about a hero in my book who is a granite countertop installer. He just received his contractor’s license and had opened up his new firm in a tiny office. Not sure if I had enough research done for what I had already written about him, I decided to talk to some employees in countertop companies in person. I was extremely nervous about this because I feared that I’d be too bothersome to the employees, and they would shoo me out of the store or office.

I went into a huge home improvement store around 11:30am. I found someone at a desk in the countertop section. I asked him some of my questions I needed for my research. He referred me to a company that might be able to answer those questions. The company stores marble and granite slabs. They also do the carving, designing, and polishing of counter-tops. He gave me directions to this place and I left.

I arrived five minutes later at the office building. The parking lot was tiny. I had to be super careful pulling up my car between a huge van and a stand supporting two marble slabs for street display.

I wrote down all my questions in a notebook in order to ask one of the workers. When I went inside, my impression of it being a tiny office from the outside was dead wrong. I stepped into a huge foyer that looked like an art gallery. Decorative finished countertops of granite and limestone hung on walls like paintings. I heard my feet echo from the high ceiling.

A hallway in the back led to another big room stored with unpolished and unfinished slabs piled high on shelves, or standing for display. I was impressed and curious about the industry. I knew nothing about it. In fact, the older I get, the more I find out that I don’t know much of anything. Here was my chance to learn about something. I immediately thought of my hero in the book as I was entering “his world.”

A doorway led outside from the side building. More slabs leaned on the fence for display. The path continued around the back of the building. I heard what sounded like sawing and drilling coming from an additional section of the building with a metal exterior. I headed back towards the doorway and a woman who looked a few years older than me came outside holding a clipboard. Good, she must work here. And she gave me eye contact. Good sign.

“Hi, do you work here?” I asked.

She gave me a little smile. “Yes,”

Going great so far. I briefly told her I needed to ask some questions about the granite countertop business, stuttering about three times. “I am writing a fiction novel about a guy who cuts granite countertops.”

The woman’s face changed and her smile faded. “Well, I don’t think I can answer any of those questions. The only person here that would know this would be the manager, and he’s busy with a customer right now.”

Well, I couldn’t ask the manager so I prodded to ask her some questions I felt she could answer. I mean, if she worked here, she had to know something. “Well, maybe you can answer some of these,” I opened my notebook to the list of questions. “Do contractors order slabs here?”

“Yes.”

“How are slabs carved?”

“They use a giant tile cutter and then an edging machine. The installation takes place on-site.”

I asked her to elaborate what she meant “on-site”.

“They go to the client’s place and do it outside.”

“That drilling I hear,” I said. “What are they doing?”

“They drill holes for faucets,” she listed more but my writing couldn’t keep up with the information. It seemed she answered about half of the questions.

“Look, that’s all I know. I’ve been only working here for three weeks,” she continued waving her hand to add emphasis. Okay, she was irritated. And it made me feel bad and embarrassed. She walked away to attend to a customer.

As I headed inside, I passed a tall middle-aged man with a hammer hanging from his belt talking to a couple. By listening to the conversation, I quickly made out that this slender man with brown curls was the manager, and the couple was a customer.

After the couple left, the manager approached me. “Can I help you?”

Great! He appeared friendly and eager. But wait until I had told him what I was here for!

He held his hand out and I shook it. “Hi, I’m Nona.” Being anxious, I dove right in. “I’m here because I’m doing some research on granite countertop businesses because I’m writing a book about a hero who-”

He held up his hand and turned to head inside.

Huh? Okay. Did he just run away from me? Or did that hand signal mean “wait”? Maybe there was someone inside that called his name. I didn’t hear anyone call his name. Maybe he ran inside to tell someone about the weird chick outside who wanted to interview him because her fictional hero cuts countertops …

It took a while until the heat surged through my system. I was too impatient. I was ruthless. I was pissing these people off! Was this guy going to come back? I waited, feeling numb.

A few seconds later, he came outside to meet me. He spoke rapidly, “You have to call and make an appointment for that. We are really busy here and we don’t have the time—there are business cards in the front and go pick one up.”

He walked off. My legs felt they were disconnected from my body because I was paralyzed in humiliation. They moved to the lobby while my upper body wasn’t ready to go. I passed the woman I spoke with earlier. She was coming my way.

She spoke, but I could tell it was to someone else.

A dreadful feeling of isolation and rejection overcame me. I made a mistake. She must hate me. She was probably thinking, “Ugh, there she is again!”

I exited the office and went to my car. I got in and started the engine. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t drive and I felt like complete shit. I tried to research a subject for my book so I wouldn’t wind up writing something incorrect or politically incorrect about it. What if someone in the industry read it, got mad, and sued me because my story mentioned radon?

I was once again left in the unknown. I would never call this company and would never speak to this manager at all! I would just have to find another company to research. I hate research. There must be a better way to do this rather than going up to strangers to ask them about their profession. Their purpose and goal was to do business, not answer questions from some silly author. If only I knew someone who had a friend or relative in the granite countertop business …

Nona's THOUGHT OF THE WEEK Valentine's Day Special

As Valentine's Day creeps up and it's only a week away, it's not a good time for some of us single gals. So I came up with a philosophy to remind the single ladies that they are okay after they read my latest thought:

PEOPLE ARE BOUND TO LABEL ME WEIRD NO MATTER WHAT PART 2

In the adult world, your peers are far more polite. This became clear to me when I moved to California. There was no blunt, in your face, obnoxious comments from people spitting out what was on their mind. Oh, but someone will always say something else to someone about me. That I was weird. I admit I am weird in some way that can be good, unique, standing out and creating something creative that can make a difference in the art or music world. (My inspiration was to be a rock star, not a nurse or accountant) But then there’s the “bad weird”. Not the crazy, mental patient or druggie weird, but the weird that’ll never get me married with a normal, quiet man who’d provide my future with a nice normal house and two kids. At parties, bars or any other social scene that didn’t consist of the singles’ mixers, I’d find some normal people to try and talk to. I wouldn’t have to worry about them flipping out as I could grow closer to them. They wouldn’t embarrass me or themselves and I could live in a comfortable quiet environment. And people, who’ll see me, won’t label me weird because my friends weren’t weird. So what happens when I try to get their attention? No connection. Either they couldn’t or wouldn’t connect with me. And who were they? People who blended in the background. Untouchable from controversy or risking their “blending in the background persona” to act a little out of the ordinary. Jocks who like to go to sports bars and go scuba diving. No one was moving their head or eyes in an out of the ordinary fashion. I’d be hurt, and then angry. I mean who did they think they were?

I admit I am weird in some way that can be good. But then there’s the “bad weird”.

I still struggle with this even today. I mean, you’re probably thinking, why is this thirty-something woman agonizing over something so teeny-boopish? The reason is, that your inner teeny booper, “want to be part of the crowd”, “to be accepted” stays within you. It can crush your soul and can force you to perceive the world as a place where no one will ever understand you. Many of us still yearn to be wanted and accepted. That led me to find friends who turned out to be anything BUT friends. Even the friends who had appreciated my weirdness. You always have to be careful with the people you befriend when the normal ones won't hang out with you because your weirdness overwhelms them. They have some emotional and psychological issues themselves. It's a dilemma that I am presently struggling to master. I'm sure some of you out there know what I'm talking about.

I also live in an area where creativity is not the trend. I need to reside in a world of entertainment like Los Angeles. Weird people there are more appreciated. I feel I can be myself when I'm down there. I know this sounds ironic to some folks. Many people in the San Francisco Bay Area diss L.A. which brings me to make a final conclusion: You diss L.A. because most of you are not creative!

SOMEONE IS BOUND TO LABEL ME WEIRD NO MATTER WHAT

Halloween is my favorite holiday because I can be weird!

Sure I’m a healthy girl. But I have an affliction. An affliction you have never heard of. An affliction so chronic, I can’t seem get rid of it. There is no cure for it. No one is running marathons to raise awareness and find a cure for it either. You are born with it and it’ll stay with you until the day you die. My affliction is WEIRD.

I used to sit by some very “untouchable” girls in junior high lunch period. What I mean by untouchable was that they were neither popular, weird, burnout, geeky, or slutty. No one picked on them. They looked average-- the girls next door who kept out of the spotlight. I thought I was safe sitting with them. But eventually one of them would blurt out to me or someone else that I was weird. Like this other quiet girl I sat with at the cafeteria in ninth grade. She kept out of the spotlight and hung out with friends who weren’t picked on but not the talk of the girl’s room either. I thought if I sat like her, acted like her, even mimicked her faces, my weirdness would become extinct. One day we sat quietly while “Lauren” was writing a letter to her other unnoticeable, noncontroversial best friend. I couldn’t help but peek at the words as she was expressing how she hated lunchtime. She said she wanted to die. I kind of felt bad that she was feeling such pain. Why didn’t she share that with me? The next words she wrote answered that question. “And Nona, she is sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo totally weird.” The “o”’s filled the whole one line of the loose leaf paper. It ripped my heart out. It signified her having a strong emotion and opinion about me.

She said, “I had never met a person ever in my life that was anything like you.”


Weird? How was I weird? Here I’m working my ass off trying not to be weird. I followed the crowd, from wearing rock shirts and stone washed jeans (this was the ‘80s), writing rock groups on my three ring binders, even buying the in-style sunglasses. It was a 24 hour job. Always on the alert. Stress! My eyes and ears were working overtime. My brain was doing double power. But someone seemed to notice something in me that wasn’t like everyone else. It pained me and sometimes I just wanted to give up. I wanted to be that girl no one could make fun of. That no one bullied if I had blurted a socially inept remark, not on purpose. I wanted to feel safe and comfortable and racked my brain to figure out ways to do it. And then eventually I threw the towel in. In college it was a different world. There was still immaturity but the cliques were vague and people focused on other things more important than picking a person to make fun of, or calling them weird. Like hooking up. Except for this one time. I was living next door to someone in the dorm who had made a comment about me to my face which was so profound. She was from Massapequa, Long Island and she was blunt. Her comment wasn’t negative nor positive, but potentially factual. She said, “I had never met a person ever in my life that was anything like you.”

(Part 2 coming next week)

GRAPEFRUIT GRIPES

With the angst of the economy, Afghanistan and all the social injustice that surrounds us, if you’re not in the mood to hear about trivial petty problems, do not read any further. Yes, I am going to write about something so petty that some readers won’t be able to stand it. But for those of you in the mood to read about mundane tasks, this one’s for you. I am going to talk about cutting grapefruit. I don’t like to cut grapefruit or any fruit. It’s an inconvenience. I dread it. Hence, this frustration could have an impact on my eating habits of fruit vs. bad sinful cookies for dessert. Does this make me sound lazy? Sure. I won’t deny that. Fruit is good for you, especially a grapefruit at breakfast time, which I will mostly focus on for this blog. I love to be in a cafeteria and collect already precut grapefruit with a maraschino cherry on top. Mmmm! But when I wake up, alone in my apartment, that lone grapefruit in my fridge sitting for days calls to me, feeding into my guilt. If I only had to cut the grapefruit in half, hey, no problem. But this is a fruit that needs elaborate cutting . Cutting it in half in my teeny weenie kitchen, I experience the first aggravation as juice spills out onto the counter. The next step, cutting around the outer edge of the pulp. In order to spoon the wedges, you must cut around each triangle of pulp. This is the nastiest part. I am no fan of handling sharp knives. I had to cut a persimmon once and had an accident. It’s real dangerous holding those little pieces that the knife slit across my finger. Right then, I vowed that I would do whatever it takes to find someone to cut my fruit for me. If I never had to cut fruit again, I’d be eating it five times as much as I do now. Not all grocery stores have pre-cut grapefruit and if so, it costs more money. The labor of cutting makes a difference. After my knife accident with the persimmon I said to myself, “If I ever get rich, I will hire a maid to cut all my fruit. Especially grapefruit. And I always want that jolly rewarding maraschino cherry on top!” For the time being, let Mommy do it!

FALLING LEAVES IN DECEMBER

Photo taken Dec. 1, Richmond, California

This photo reminds me of the times when I used to go trick or treating. I would kick up all the leaves that had fallen on the ground just like you see in this picture. Most of the leaves make it to the ground by the end of October. In the Northeast, that is. However, in the San Francisco Bay Area it is a different story. Aside from its other unique features such as micro-climates and geeks galore, is its unique fall season. We are not exactly like Southern California where the trees stay green all year round. In Northern California not all the deciduous trees bare during the winter like they do in the Northeastern United States. The Bay Area, in addition to other parts of central and northern California has half and half. Half of the leaves stay on the trees (such as citrus) and the other half change. They don't really turn color until the month of November. And by December, half of the leaves are on the ground. It's December 13th and colored leaves are still hanging on the trees, but are falling every minute. I know that because some of them like to creep into my apartment through the door, especially on rainy days making my entryway all messy. Of course, people living in the real cold states reading this would like to wring my neck. I can feel for them since I grew up in such harsh winter conditions in New York. Now that I look at our long late California autumn, I no longer get a weird feeling about it. I was so intrigued by it in the past because California winter is really like a very long autumn. After 12 years living in California it's a scene like any other season that becomes normal to my eyes. It no longer phases me. I adjusted to it as the norm. I have reached that stage when seeing palm trees also. It took a long time, but now, the sight of them is normal to me. When I visit family in New York, it feels weird when I don't see palm trees. It's definitely a habitat thing. I'd like to know how all of you from the North would feel seeing a late autumn? Or green leaves remaining on the trees all through January?