The Dedication

By Amy MacKinnon

Some who have read Tethered comment that it's dark, it's subject matter "creepy." Others say they'll never read it because it involves the death of child. I understand, I do. I might not read such a story myself. It was years before I reached for The Lovely Bones and now it's one of my favorites. It took all the resolve I had to read through that first chapter when Suzy (last name Salmon, like the fish) was brutalized. But those of us who've read it were granted a reprieve, actually Suzy was, with the ending. And with the writing.

My novel, Tethered is dedicated to Erica Michelle Marie Green. I first heard about her on NPR while driving home. It stunned me. How could a child be discarded? How? I'd already written the first chapter of what I thought was a short story, but after listening to that NPR segment, I knew it had to be a novel that included Precious Doe and others like her. It's not an exact retelling of her story at all, but the way in which she was found is similar. When I started researching cases, I went to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. There I found page after page of children who had been discarded in similar fashion over the years. Far, far too many.

So for those of you who can't read Tethered, I understand, it's difficult to know about the lives of forgotten children. But you can't ignore them either by pretending they don't exist.

Out There

By Amy MacKinnon

I wonder if it's too late.

Galleys have gone out for review, been sent to booksellers for ordering, to friends and family to read. I want to pull them all back, re-pack them in their cardboard boxes and hide them away from curious minds. People will talk. They'll have opinions and thoughts -- not all of them positive -- about the story, the writing, me. Soon, very soon, the book and I will be judged.

Not everyone will be kind, though some will fall to the other extreme. I won't know everyone's motives. Reviews on Amazon and other sites will be precipitated by friendship, animosity, or true conviction. I won't always be able to tell the difference. Labels of mediocrity will sting worst of all. I despise average.

It's never bothered me to be judged by the way I look, my actions, gender, politics, my parenting, address, or religion. I don't generally care. I've been regarded as fat, ugly, poor, stupid, and cruel, all of which have been true at different points in my life. That's fine, I can accept those critiques just fine. I have been laid bare in my most primal state before a room filled with curious residents and not blinked. Childbirth is humbling that way. But to have my book reviewed publicly will be the most disconcerting experience of all.

I want to be the person who walks into the wind upright and steadfast. I want to be Teflon. I want to be above the fray of the naysayers and uglies. I want to be fierce. And I am. Much like Achilles on the battlefield, I am strong and sure for the most part, but this book of mine is my sweet, soft heel.

So how to cope?

My Extraordinary New Cover!

By Amy MacKinnon

A dream come true thanks to designer Whitney Cookman. He created this without seeing my web site and they are shockingly in sync.

Tethered in the Crown Catalog

By Amy MacKinnon

It's on the Internet, out there for everyone to see, and yet, I feel intensely shy about sharing it with all of you. It's four pages of my novel in Random House's fall 2008 Crown Catalog (see page 118). Hmmm.

My dearest friend in the world is now reading Tethered for the second time. She said she reads a sentence, pauses, and then re-reads, trying to find me within it. She can't. This is a person who has known me over twenty years, we've shared everything of our lives --dorm rooms, first loves, true loves, children, angst -- and yet she has never been privy to the person she found contained within those pages. Who are you, she asked.

It isn't a story about me, I explained, you know that. But it is reflective of the way I process the world, a deeply intense, painful realization of the lives of others. Maybe it's my survivors guilt. I have been blessed with a loving family, good health, opportunities where so many others have not. Or maybe it's just a simple story. I don't know, I don't.

What I do know is that it is more of me than I've ever shared with another and now I'm giving it to the world. It's a terrifying prospect.

Being Critiqued

By Amy MacKinnon

It didn't go well.

Weeks ago, I submitted the first two chapters of my WIP to my writers' group. It was my turn to be critiqued, and truth be told, I was a wreck. I was at a crossroads and badly needed these pages to be good. Having my first book, Tethered, well-received by publishing types should have been all the reassurance I needed. But we are writers and we are required to prove our merit anew (to the world, but more important to ourselves) with each subsequent story.

The other issue at hand was I'd just finished reading the sophmore effort of a writer whose first book was brilliant. This second book was a disappointment. It read too much like his debut, even the characters had the same voice, inflections, physicality. I didn't want to write another version of Tethered so I stetched beyond my abilities. This work-in-progess of mine could not be first person, there would be no present tense, there would be multiple points-of-view and even an omniscient narrator. It was a struggle.

My writers' group was kind, of course. First, they spoke of the good contained within my pages and then told me all that wasn't working: too much backstory plunked in here; slow down the action there; be careful to tread lightly with the visuals in this section; and, no, that nickname doesn't work at all. They were kind and they were honest.

Afterward, I thought I had shown them too much too soon. For me. I was feeling fragile and uncertain, I should have waited. Perhaps this story wasn't what I should be writing. It was hard.

From time to time, I'd open up the document and re-read what I had. Should I proceed? I started another. I liked it very much, it would be a joy to write. Almost easy because I'm so close to it. The research will be a cinch. There is no ease to the research with my WIP. My book is based on actual events, a horror the world turned its back to, but one I can't forget. Reading, and oh my God watching, what mothers and fathers, what young children had to endure left me devastated. I should let go of the story, I thought.

But it wouldn't let go of me.

What I didn't realize (and you may find this difficult to believe) was that each time I reviewed my WIP, I revised it. It seemed too little to meet the demands of my writers' group -- they have very high standards expressed in the kindest possible terms. A tweak here, deleting a paragraph there, punching up dialogue all around moved it forward, though I was certain it wasn't enough.

Last night, they critiqued those same pages. Their hard work and mine was rewarded; they deemed the work up to par. After they finished with their feedback, Lisa asked if the last time had been too much, too critical. I told her it was, that I hadn't been ready to hear all they had to say so early on in the project. But Lynne disagreed. She said that while I may have felt that way, the revision proved otherwise. Hannah agreed the proof was on the page.

I don't know how some writers do it, how they work without the support of others who know what it is to labor and second-guess and obsess over every word on the page. To wonder if the work is good enough and not receive an answer.

Last night felt exactly like the very first time I presented the first two chapters of Tethered to Hannah, Lisa, and Lynne. I was elated and reassurred that I was on the right path. More than that I was grateful to know I have these three extraordinary women in my life.

Parenting Your Writing

by Hannah

Parenting. Writing. Frighteningly alike, in my opinion. Families pick up certain titles, writers pick up how-to’s. We copy, we try to make it our own. The masters of each discipline learn to improvise, to work free-form. With the rules yet around the rules. How do they do it?

I think, to some degree, they find rules that are malleable to the moment, that work time and time again, that prepare us for anything. How many of us have been there:

Mom, everyone else is going.

Craft these ten words into a first paragraph. We’ll all share in five minutes.

Things I learn about writing apply in odd ways to other parts of my life. And I find that in odd ways, things I learn about parenting apply to writing.

If you read this blog, you know that Lynne has written a truly fabulous parenting book, Negotiation Generation. If I may take the liberty, here are a couple of key points that are surprisingly universal about the Negotiation Generation (aka the parents, not the children!).

We tell when we should show. We assume there are skills when skills haven’t been mastered. We ramble when we should be silent. Hmm. Sound already like any other discipline you know?

What we should do, and often don’t, is to prepare with intention, so when the time comes we can put our best out there and let our best do the work. We need to know what is likely to come our way and make sure the knowledge is solid, so that the action we take is effective.

We all know those moments will come: that in-class exercise, that opportunity to show someone a first chapter, or eventually, an entire manuscript. If you can predict, you can prepare. If you read Negotiation Generation, you will find a surprising number of moments in your life to ask yourself one simple question: What Would Lynne Do?

The answer? Follow through with insightful preparation and skilled delivery. You might just find your challenges simplified. I know I have.

That First Chapter

By Amy

It was never intended as a first chapter.

I was intrigued by C. Michael Curtis, Agni and Ploughshares, the Bellevue Literary Review -- especially Bellevue because that literary journal was founded by Danielle Ofri. I'd read both of her memoirs of what it was to become a doctor and wanted desperately to write something that would impress her half as much as her writing touched me.

Short stories are difficult animals to tame, invested with a nature I find elusive. When recommending fiction to Post Road, I consider an accomplished short story to be dynamic, have a compelling voice and characters unlike the 10 other male ennui submitted that quarter, I want to be moved by something transformative. Like pornography, I know it when I see it. But my goodness, it's awfully hard to write, don't you think?

Mr. Curtis, past fiction editor for The Atlantic, believes first-person present tense is an affectation; Sven Birkets, the editor of Agni, expects language to arrest his attention; and frankly, I've never understood the tastes of those at Ploughshares. But Bellevue, I love the pages of that literary journal. It contains writing that is bound to this earth, sensible and enthralling, nothing that strains credulity. Its editors seek out stories that demonstrate an understanding of craft, a facility with language, and honest insight into the human condition that other journals can only reach toward. So when I finished my short story, I sent it to Bellevue, knowing Dr. Ofri wouldn't read it. It was enough someone there would.

Weeks passed, I was distracted by an illness in the family, a move to a new home. And then an email appeared from the Bellevue Literary Review. It had to be a rejection, I expected nothing more and surely it was from the fiction editor. Well, yes and no. It was a note from Dr. Ofri:

"We considered this story strongly. Good writing, nice tone. But the ending isn't as strong as it could be; it seems to stop rather than end. It also feels like we need some more mortar in the story: We need to know early on that woman is embalming and that narrator is female, how old. We need a bit about her life, how long has she worked there, what is private life like. It was a touching moment when little girl wanders in, but reader needs to understand how narrator's life is like the girl's. If you decided to fill the story out, we'd be happy to read a revised version if you submit it late summer or early fall (during our next reading cycle). -Danielle Ofri"

I must have read her words a hundred times. Everything she wrote made sense, but nothing more than, "...it seems to stop rather than end." The problem was I hadn't written a short story at all, I was inept as ever. What I'd done was write the first chapter of a novel. I knew this was true, knew it at my core, because my characters wouldn't leave me be, they had so much more to say.

A few moments of Dr. Ofri's time spent reading my submission and a hurried email with editorial feedback encouraged me to take a path I'd never intended. Perhaps she'll be happy to know I worked on that first chapter for five more months before continuing on with the rest of the story. Like the reader, I, too, needed to discover how old my protagonist was, more of her private life, and the ties that bound her to the little girl. As Dr. Ofri said, I had to build the "mortar" of her life. I've done that, I think. We shall see if it's good enough.

So thank you, Dr. Ofri, you were right. It wasn't an ending at all, just the beginning.

Critique Me

By Amy

A lot of folks check in here each day, read what we have to say, some leave comments (thanks, we really do appreciate them), while others email their thoughts. All who stop by here have been unfailingly gracious, many have linked this blog and/or various posts.

One thing worries me, though: I’ve read the completed manuscripts of each of my writers’ group members, I’m certain of their abilities, but none of you know if I can write well. Yes, you’ve read my posts – none of which have been properly edited. Some of you may have Googled me and found a few of my op-eds available there. But fiction is something else altogether.

So today, I’m going to serve myself up for you to critique. This is a Writers' Group blog, after all. It’s a small excerpt from my manuscript, there are space constraints. The set-up is my protag , an undertaker, has arrived to remove a body. As you know, when giving feedback it’s almost more important to describe what doesn’t work than what does. Have at it, rip it apart. Go on, I’m strong. I can take it:

From the hearse, I remove two pairs of gloves, one small, the other large, along with the gurney, body bag, and my case. Walking back to the triple-decker, I see a middle-aged woman on the deck of her third floor apartment, her hair in curlers, her squat body encased in a bulky robe. Her mouth filled with clothespins. She’s hanging underthings from a makeshift line strung between her doorframe and the single dying oak in her postage-stamp yard. She sees me watching her and freezes, big white underpants billowing in her left hand. She yanks the pins from her mouth, spits twice off of the deck, and then crosses herself. When the breeze picks up, the oak’s forgotten leaves swirl around its trunk, and the woman turns her attention back to the laundry.

Steve-o keeps his back to me as I struggle up the stairs. His teeth nimbly work over his cuticles, reminding me of a man I once saw eating chicken wings; the way he splayed the tip from the drum, snapping them apart and then gnawing each bone until it gleamed white. This time Steve-o doesn’t hold the door for me.

Actually, I'm not feeling terribly strong right now, a little vulnerable if truth be told, so try not to be too harsh. Okay?

Read at Your Own Risk

By Lynne

Yesterday, I read the first few paragraphs of my novel at a writers’ workshop. Fifteen writers. One published, fabulous workshop leader. The adrenaline spilled from my kidneys and circulated at warped speed throughout my body. It felt good. This was what I call the gutsy reading. I was brave because I knew the piece was ready. I needed to take the risk to hear the feedback. I welcomed it. The good, the bad, or the overly critical.

This wasn’t the first time snippets of my novel have been shared outside writers’ group. My first reading of a portion of it I call the naïve reading. Two years ago, I went to a program all starry eyed. Infatuated with the idea of being a fiction writer. I couldn’t wait to share what I thought was my unique story. I got slammed. In retrospect, justifiably so. What I shared was purple, you could even go so far as to say amethyst, prose. All internal dialogue. Adjectives and adverbs and passive voice, oh my!!

The next several workshops I went to were my no way I’m reading affairs. With my first experience fresh, then indelible, I was never ever going to read in a workshop again. I vowed that the only kind of reading I would ever do would be the published author reading. The one where you stand up at a podium and read your work to supportive onlookers. And because you’re published, critique would remain polite, or at the very least out of ear shot.

Reading your work to anyone, never mind people you don’t know, is a major decision for a writer. In previous blog entries, we’ve all written about sharing our work in writers’ group for the first few times, and what a risky thing this was to do. Reading in a workshop, when you don’t have any idea of the group members’ personal biases, is even more perilous. Group members might like your work yet, want to help you bring it to the next level. (I’m an optimist) Or perhaps they really think you are ready to hear what’s not working in the piece. Some writers like to workshop for workshop sake. On some level, they enjoy the critical thinking process of pulling a work apart. And if there are agents or editors in the workshop, get ready to hear feedback that has a marketplace agenda.

For any writer, reading work in public, getting critiqued, and then processing the feedback is very heavy stuff. Fiction writing is so personal and the tastes of readers subjective, making you a bit more fragile when it comes to criticism. If you do choose to read, just go into it knowing that feedback is likely to be frank, and you may be a bit bruised by it. If you think you have a thick enough skin or you feel your work is ready—go for it. Watch out though, more often than not, feedback is more constructive or negative than positive. Many who critique leave no feelings spared.

I’ve highlighted types of readings I’m aware of: the gutsy reading, the naïve reading, the no way I’m reading, and the published reading. Are there any other types of reading? What have your reading experiences been like?

Treated like a writer

A line or two from Lynne

I gave a lot of thought to how I would behave when it was my first time to receive feedback at writers' group. We'd already had one meeting, and I'd had the chance to see how the group might operate. Each person began with positive comments about the work being presented. When it came time for constructive feedback, it was exactly that--constructive. No barbs, or jabs. The writers' work was respected, yet critique and suggestions were thoughtful and deep.

Then it came time for me to send my pages. With twenty pages of a novel to my name, I knew I needed to do this, and I knew there would be feedback, lots of feedback. But I was fearful they wouldn't think I was a writer. Maybe I didn't really belong in this group of talented women. When I pressed the send button on the email that contained my work, I immediately wondered what they thought. Like a teenager dying to fit it, all day long I asked myself, are they reading it right now? More importantly, do they like it?

I'm the kind of person who usually dives into new learning situations but for once I consciously chose to hang back and see how this would play out. I was nervous when I arrived at our meeting one week later; I tried really hard not to show it. I knew Hannah, Lisa and Amy had enormous power that night. I prayed they'd use it wisely.

I still have the notes I made during that meeting. I scribbled away in my journal, my pen to paper keeping me pinned to my seat. They really liked my protagonist. They felt drawn into my story. Now for the constructive feedback. I chose a difficult story to tell. They struggled with the way I structured my story. One of the main characters was inaccessible.

I knew when I joined the group that from a fiction perspective, I was a novice. Lisa, Hannah and Amy never said I was, and though I'm sure they always knew it, that night they treated me like a fiction writer. They examined and discussed my work, never once comparing it to anyone else's. Never once judging it. Their feedback was and still is, a rich blend of the art and science of writing. Always aimed at making a piece better, stronger, more moving.

When I left that first meeting, I was energized. They'd had positive things to say about my work! The next day, I carved out time to edit those first pages and I wrote three more. I could do this, I thought. I could write and I could withstand the critique of my work. I was on my way.

Since that first meeting some fifteen months ago, I've finished telling my difficult story, I've made that main character complex yet likable and I've won the group over to my unusual structure. It never would have happened if during my first night of feedback in writers' group I hadn't been treated like a writer.

'Tis Better to Give or Receive?

By Hannah

When friends find out about this group, two questions always arise, from non-writers perhaps more than from writers. Before they ask what we write, who we are, or how we work, their faces crinkle up with sympathetic worry.

“What is it like getting your story discussed? And what if you don’t like someone else’s?”

Or, seasonally put, when it comes to criticism, is it better to give or to receive?

It is hard to have something you create taken apart. I am used to being edited, but before our first several meetings, a surprising case of nerves hit as soon as my twenty pages flew away by e-mail. Each time, however, Amy, Lisa and Lynne started with what they loved and then pointed out what needed attention, with honesty and kindness, and a goal of making the work stronger. So while I delight in their enthusiasm, their criticism has become addictive.

Do I take every comment? Most, yes. If three people react the same way, it’s a no-brainer. Do I rewrite along the way? Yes, unfortunately. I start with an outline, but my characters surprise me, and certain Group edits pave the way for dramatic shifts. 2002 Newbery Award winner Linda Sue Park describes herself as more a rewriter than a writer; when I heard her say this, I wanted to hug her. I write ahead, make mad notes on old pages based on Group comments, shift things about, and push forward again. Because of my writing style and Group, my first draft looks like a Jackson Pollock, but because of their honest critique, I will pour out the second full draft quickly and with confidence that those characters are real, settings are clear, threads are tied.

As for giving feedback, I find it hard to take apart something created by another. If it's a good story, I get swept away, and I have read three amazing stories over the past year. But in addition to offering Grammar and Punctuation Nerdliness, I continually try to make my critique more useful: pointing out foreshadowing that makes me excited but asking continuity questions; doodling under character comments that deliver a crystal clear voice, and checking any that seem out of place.

The answer to the seasonal question at hand? Simple. It is always nice to receive, but if I can give back even a small piece of what has been given to me, it is my pleasure to do it.

Believing is a Powerful Gift

Tuesdays with Amy

I had no intention of turning that first chapter into a book; I didn’t believe in it enough. It was dark; the characters ached with melancholy and the setting was too morose to sustain a reader’s interest. My protagonist, Clara, had been through enough in life, she didn’t need to have her character dissected as well.

But that first time I shared Clara with them, they empathized with her. They felt her pain and also wanted to know more about another character, a little girl who played in the funeral home. They were intrigued and I, a writer in search of approval, was hooked by their interest.

In subsequent weeks and months, I would sit quietly at my end of the critique table, my shoulders hunched (I never hunch!), my hand covering my mouth to hide a smile whenever they paid a compliment or busily taking notes when they offered suggestions to make my writing better.

Always their voices swirled in my head as I wrote:

Lisa would encourage me to play with whole paragraphs, perhaps this would be better if it came at the opening of the chapter, and move this to the middle.

Lynne would whisper to me about a character’s motivation, would he really behave that way?

Hannah always had me reaching for my copies of Strunk & White and Chicago Manual, the semicolon is probably the least utilized and most misunderstood punctuation mark.

And there was more, too many substantive critiques to account for here.

Now that I’ve completed my book, I often wonder if I would have continued on without the support given me by my writers’ group. They believed in me and my writing, and that’s a mighty powerful gift.

This much I know is true: Had they not been there every step of the way, it would not have become a manuscript I believe in too.

My writer's group helps me build a snowman

Posted by Lisa

Sharing my writing with my group is easy - that's what I'd like to say. But, I'm afraid, I can't.

Since the first time we met, it has never been easy to e-mail my pages. As I hit that send button, I wonder whether my characters' actions are consistent, believable. Whether pacing and stakes work. No, sharing my writing hasn't gotten easier. But, now I understand how it helps me as a writer.

When I write a first draft, a second draft, I am building a snowman (I grew up in Canada - building a snowman should be easy for me). It takes time, planning, hard work, and sculpting. Final details are crucial; you need more than a carrot nose to give your snowman a presence and a personality - at least I learned that much about building character in my favorite writing book, Word Painting.

The first time our group met to review work, I hoped Amy, Hannah, and Lynne would LOVE my writing. They did love my writing, PARTS of it. But they had questions about a character, concerns about the timing of events in the first chapter. I walked away from those first couple meetings, more or less confused.

Now when I write my pages (build my snowman), I get their feedback knowing their insights can only help me grow as a writer.

If my writing REALLY were a snowman, they might say:

"I like the structure you chose. Four snowballs instead of three. Neat."

"But the foundation, it's lopsided. Look, Lisa, from this angle, it's not working. It looks like it might tip. Pack some snow here. Take this."

The first meeting I was leery of their criticism. Now I long for their feedback. Writing, for me, it's the same as building a snowman. And so, my writer's group helps me build a better snowman. Sure it's tough to hear that I must knock off the top snowball to straighten and sculpt the middle one. But they help me do what is necessary to produce my best writing.