Hyperboles in Motion

A Perfect Gift for Writers

2011-11-29T18:02:00.000-08:00

The Twelve Days of the Season

by Tam Albright

Of all the many gifts you could give the writer in your life this holiday, there is really only one thing that writers want.

On the first day of the season,

Oh yeah. You are SO going into my novel for this.

my loved ones asked of me,

“Are there enough ideas for your WIP?”

So, on the second day of the season,

my loved ones gifted me, with

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP.

On the third day of the season,

my loved ones helped some more, with

Three unrelated plot bunnies,

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP.

On the fourth day of the season,

the blinking cursor mocked;

(Many four-letter swear words,)

Three unrelated plot bunnies,

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP.

But mom, it was all my work from NaNoWriMo this year!

On the fifth day of the season,

my loved ones distracted me–

Five times I forgot to hit “SAVE!”

(More four-letter swear words,)

Three unrelated plot bunnies,

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP.

On the sixth day of the season,

I wrote my loved ones in,

Six doomed characters,

Five times I forgot to hit “SAVE!”

(F-dash-dash-dash word,)

Three unrelated plot bunnies,

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP.

On the seventh day of the season,

I vented to the Net,

Seven writing #hash-tags,

Six doomed characters,

Five times I forgot to hit “SAVE!”

(Still swearing swear words,)

Three unrelated plot bunnies,

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP.

On the eighth day of the season,

We'll see who needs to keep their day job, Aunt Melba.

my loved ones gave me advice,

Eight clichéd phrases,

Seven writing #hash-tags,

Six doomed characters,

Five times I forgot to hit “SAVE!”

(*eye-roll* Four-letter swear words,)

Three unrelated plot bunnies,

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP.

On the ninth day of the season,

my “hobby” was discussed,

Yeah, nine old trunked novels,

Eight clichéd phrases,

Seven writing #hash-tags,

Six doomed characters,

Five times I forgot to hit “SAVE!”

(“I’m a sailor” swear words,)

Three unrelated plot bunnies,

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP.

Then they'll quest for the seven magical keys of Ventoozler. Hey, I can make it a series!

On the tenth day of the season,

I became quite desperate;

Ten magical McGuffins,

Nine old trunked novels,

Eight clichéd phrases,

Seven writing #hash-tags,

Six doomed characters,

Five times I forgot to hit “SAVE!”

(Swear words just to say them,)

Three unrelated plot bunnies,

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP.

On the eleventh day of the season,

with my loved ones fast asleep, I had

Eleven cups a-coffee,

Ten magical McGuffins,

Nine old trunked novels,

Eight clichéd phrases,

Seven writing #hash-tags,

Six doomed characters,

Five times I forgot to hit “SAVE!”

(Four-letter swear words,)

Three unrelated plot bunnies,

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP.

On the twelfth day of the season,

Finally, peace and quiet. Now for my next dilemma--WIP or Facebook?

my loved ones got the drift;

Twelve uninterrupted hours,

Eleven cups a-coffee,

Ten magical McGuffins,

Nine old trunked novels,

Eight clichéd phrases,

Seven writing #hash-tags,

Six doomed characters,

Five times I forgot to hit “SAVE!”

(I still can’t believe I did that,)

Three unrelated plot bunnies,

Two back up hard drives,

And enough ideas for my WIP!

Happy Holidays!

Check us out at: http://www.spectaclepmg.com/

Did You Know?

2011-10-19T15:34:00.001-07:00

Right now, I am reading an awesome book called Don't Know Much About Mythology, by Kenneth C. Davis. Inside its pages await wondrous worlds that I had nearly forgotten from the days of yore--back when make-believe and playground etiquette were a way of life.

I have since reconnected myself with the all stories of old such as the Odyssey, Iliad, The Golden Fleece, Thor and Loki, Br'er Rabbit, Legend of King Arthur, the story of Isis and Osiris and stories from the bible. Truly, it's like having the best teacher that you've ever had refresh you on these tales, and then adds a new perspective on how these myths though written so long ago are still entrenched in our every day lives.

In his book, Davis explores not only the realms of myth, but how these myths have impacted our society throughout history. "It is this history, that provides us with the roots that bind us to one another. These are the stories that we all identify with, the ones that are soul deep, reaching in to us to give us that feeling of bonding with our ancestors of times long since past when we used to entertain around cook fires." (Davis, 2006)

Honestly, I think that it is for this one very profound reason that I write.

Davis offers that everything from names and holidays, to our media icons and entertainment still hold evidence of our love of ancient myths and the underlying idea of "Good vs. Evil."

Just about all of the blockbuster hits draw upon mythic themes and sometimes include very specific mythical references, like in The Matrix Trilogy, where the names Morpheus, Niobe, and Oracle are all drawn directly from mythic Greek characters.

The holiday Halloween is a modern vestige of an ancient mythical celebration.

It's the same with Christmas and Easter. With it's candles and gift giving, Christmas is based on old pagan Roman holidays, including Saturnalia, a week long festival of the winter solstice dedicated to the god of agriculture. Things like Christmas trees, wreaths, mistletoe, holly and ivy are borrowed from ancient druidic traditions from northern Europe in which the evergreen symbolized the hope for new life in the dead of winter.

Was the original Easter about the resurrection of Jesus? Nope! Originally, it was a pagan festival celebrating the coming of spring. Even the word "Easter" is thought to have come from an early - English word Eastre, possibly the name of an Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring. (The Christians came later; and as a way to force pagans into Christianity, Christians altered some of their own holidays to help the transition and acception of their religion.)

As another example, look at the calendar. Whether it be a Thursday in March or a Saturday in June, these names of the days and months all come from Greek, Roman, and Norse mythology. All of the planets in our solar system, excluding Earth are named for Roman gods.

According to Davis, "Our very language is loaded with words from the mythic past - I own a pair of Nikes, I had a Trojan horse virus infect my computer at work, I have a mild case of arachnophobia that can put me into a panic."

Thought that Hell was where Satan made his home? No way! The Norse goddess Hel was there first and hers was "an icy underworld where oath breakers, evil doers, and those unlucky enough not to have died in battle were sent." (Davis, 2006).

Gives a new perspective to the phrase "Hell freezing over, " doesn't it?

In other words, myths have been, and remain a powerful force in our lives, often without our even recognizing them. We use them in our business names, our literary and pop culture, our words, and expressions.

After reading this book, I will always marvel at the parallels drawn between the Aegis Combat System that our military uses and 'Aegis,' the protective shield of Zeus and Athena's. I will also forever double-geek over the word 'Vulcan' which is not only the race of humanoid extraterrestrials, who are known to practice the philosophies of reason and logic in the long running series, Star Trek, it is also the Roman name for Hephaestus, god of the smiths and the forge. (For those of you that don't know, this allusion makes sense as Vulcans come from the planet Vulcan, which is much hotter, has a stronger surface of gravity, and has many physical elements that sort of brings to mind a forge-like setting.) And yes, I will always giggle at the implications of the Trojan condom.

I guess you can say that this book has proved to be my Achilles Heel.

For the Discouraged Writer

2011-10-03T09:05:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, I had a perfect life. Husband worked all the live-long day, while I cared for our three boys and dabbled in what I believed to be a "Writer's" life. With a capital 'W'.

Only, whenever I sat down to write, I couldn't. At least, not as much as I thought a real "Writer" with a capital 'W' would. This worried me. Most everyone in the business parrots that Mark Twain quote, "Write what you know." Maybe I didn't have enough worldly experience to write anything beyond the four walls that housed the core of my life: kissing boo boos, cleaning poop, and laundering sweaty socks. (Somehow, even with my limitus on this great big world, I knew that such things did not make for tantalizing storytelling. Be thankful.)

I quested.

For three years I labored through false starts and frightening writer's groups on the road of trials. I went to workshops, took online courses, and made friends with some wonderful writers who stretched me, shaped me, and fed my head. I read--books, blogs, magazines--and I learned, learned, learned. "Do [something], but never do [something else]. Unless you're totally [blah blah blah] which makes for a completely different [I don't know what.]" You know, the kind of mindblowing advice one receives at 2AM that aligns planets.

Yet.

I still had a difficult time writing. I was no longer that noob who wrote one thousand ways to say "said." No. Instead, I was a noob armed with knowledge. With the art of "knowing better" came the fear of screwing up in spite of it.

Meanwhile, my "Real" life continued in a sort of euphoria that would have made Ozzie and Harriet envious. Husband whistled in the morning while donning his tie. The boys played little league, and I wasn't cleaning up nearly as much poop. (That is, until we got the puppy. Ugh.) Still, being a "Writer" with a capital 'W' proved elusive and I worried of ever having anything truly interesting to say.

I tried to follow the trends. I posted all sorts of inane thoughts, and deep thoughts, and thoughts on writing with the hope that no one would realize that I was an ugly duckling trying to swim out there with all the swans.

Then the unthinkable happened: the economy declared open season and my husband's career died at the end of a corporate rifle. The four walls that contained all of the certainties my life had been blown away, and I had no choice but to cross the threshold into the unknown world.

Since then, I have dealt with homelessness, rootlessness, hunger, and grief while trapped within the belly of the whale. Despair though never came. I don't really know what happened.

It's almost like Pinocchio's Blue Fairy has come to visit me and I have been given a real life. With that Real Life, I've also gained some valuable life lessons that have changed me for the better. I'm far more productive. I'm less wasteful. I appreciate and focus on all of the good things that I have, and I don't look to anyone but myself to fix the things that need it. I don't worry about my swan status.

I have goals. Ambitious ones. Oh, and I am no longer limited to just knowing stuff about poop and sweaty socks.

Even though there isn't much to report in regard to our current circumstances, (e.g., husband and I are still looking for jobs, we are now on a month to month lease with my sister for the interim, our Gypsy-mobile got a new transmission, and the kids are doing great at their new school,) I feel as if everything is different.

I have returned to myself in a way that I never could have expected.

I'm Whole. With a capital 'W'.

The Only Stars You believed In

2011-10-02T20:40:00.000-07:00

Antilamentation
by Dorianne Laux

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering
any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

Only a handful know this about me, but I am a Synesthete. (One of the many reasons why my name was on the "weird" list growing up, and why my reactions are so strong when it comes to books.) For more info about Synesthesia, go to: http://web.mit.edu/synesthesia/www/synesthesia.html

This. Poem. Oh, this poem! How can I adequately explain what happens to me when I read Antilamentation by Dorianne Laux ?

I taste the small concrete rocks that I would put into my mouth as a kid. I used to love to wet them with my tongue, especially if they were fresh from the dirt. Then I would sit for hours, rolling it in my mouth while pretending to be the ocean in triumph over a mountain.

Each sentence holds the crunch of footsteps on gravel and the smell of rusted metal, all wrapped up in brief flashes of burnt orange before my eyes. I can't tell whether I have lost myself in the words, sinking into them like sunlight on skin, or if I was present in them always.

Every word of this poem holds a sound, a taste, and a shape that reawakens my ache to hold a mountain once more.

I don't know how else to express it.

How NOT To Write A Novel: 200 Classic Mistakes and How to Avoid Them—A Misstep-by-Misstep Guide by Howard Mittelmark and Sandra Newman

2011-10-01T13:37:00.000-07:00

After purchasing a slew of the awful things in youthful ignorance, I realized that most "How To" books are, at best, generic in suggestion and technique with a tendency to veer toward the formulaic. (Of course, some of the worst ones I've wasted dollars on are nothing short of gimmicky self promotions put out by an author who probably fell short on the sales of their previous novel -- but hey, you live and learn.)

In short, I don't buy them.

Mostly.

I came across one a few weeks ago that is both unusual in its presentation and highly entertaining in its delivery. How NOT To Write A Novel: 200 Classic Mistakes and How to Avoid Them—A Misstep-by-Misstep Guide by **Howard Mittelmark and Sandra Newman is, in a word -- fabulous. Using witty sarcasm and hilarious (yet painful) examples of horrible writing, Mittelmark and Newman effectively demonstrates the pitfalls that every new writer falls into.

Of the many reasons why I love this book, (ie.- the snark, the cursing, the funny headings, etc.) the best part is the writing examples. Really, it's like every bad writing example I've ever read in a writing comm, all condensed into one invaluable guide.

The first example of the book is one that is near and dear to me, especially after experiencing a concrit-gone-wrong with an especially sensitive amateur writer in an online comm several months back.

For that reason, I had to share it along with the advice given:

Beginnings and Setups
A manuscript comes screaming
across the sky ...

Many writers kill their plots in their infancy with an ill-conceived premise or an unreadable opening. Try any of the strategies we've collected in our extensive field work, and you too can cut off narrative momentum at the ankles.

--The Lost Sock--
Where the plot is too slight

"Fools," Thomas Abrams thought, shaking his head as he completed his inspection of the drainage assembly under the worried eyes of Len Stewart. "Foolish, foolish, fools," he muttered. Squirming out from under the catchment basin, he stood up and brushed off the grit that clung to his gray overalls. Then he picked up his clipboard and made a few notes on the form, while Len waited anxiously for the verdict. Thomas didn't mind making him wait.

"Well," he said, as he finished and put the pen away. "Well, well, well."

"What is it?" Len asked, unable to keep a tremor out of his voice.

"When will you people learn that you can't use a B-142 joint-enclosure with a 1811-D nipple cinch?"

"B-but--" Len stammered.

"Or maybe, let me take a wild guess here, just maybe, you confused an 1811-D with an 1811-E?" He paused to let it sink in before delivering the death-blow. "... Again."

He left Len speechless and walked away without a look back, chuckling ruefully as he imagined the look on Len's face when he fully realized the implications of his mistake.

Here the main conflict is barely adequate to sustain a Partridge Family episode. Remember that this drama has to carry the reader through 300-odd pages. The central dilemma of a novel should be important enough to change someone's life forever.

Furthermore, it should be something of broad interest. One of the first stumbling blocks a novelist must overcome is the misapprehension that what is of interest to him will necessarily be of interest to anybody else. A novel is never an opportunity to vent about the things that your roommates, friends, or mother cannot bear to listen to one more time. No matter how passionate and just your desire to see the masculine charms of the short man appreciated by the fair sex, or to excoriate landlords who refuse to make plumbing repairs, even when violation of the specific wording of the lease, which wording he might pretend to be unaware of, but you know better because you have made highlighted copies for him as well as for your roommates, friends, and mother -- these are not plots but gripes.

This is not to say that a short man, unlucky in love and living in a house with substandard plumbing, cannot be your hero, but his height and plumbing should be background and texture, sketched in briefly as he heads to the scene of the crime, wondering how the hell anyone could get injuries like that from a leg of mutton.

Seriously, this book now sits next to my "The Elements of Style." With its wonderful and refreshing approach to "How To's" and loads of useful advice for the fledgling writer, this is a must buy.

**Liked the excerpt? Be sure to check out Howard and Sandra's website: http://www.hownottowriteanovel.com/ for more snarky wit and sage advice.

Introduction

2011-09-30T19:01:00.000-07:00

If you’re reading this, more than likely it means that you are my friend and I have waylaid you at some point to follow me here. (Seriously, thank you for being a really good friend. Yes, your check is in the mail.)

Otherwise, you’re a fellow writer, reader, or other creative type in the industry looking for something and have managed to stumble your way to this blog. (I know how it is with creative types.)

Regardless, I am glad you’re here. I am Tam Albright.

Hyperboles in Motion is a blog is dedicated to the only industry that I could ever work in that doesn’t require a day pass. It covers a broad range of subjects from bizarre things that writers find interesting, to talking about the industry pitfalls and tips of the trade. You’ll even find an occasional book review.

So, with that being said: readers, writers, dreamers, and other fabricators welcome!