• Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing

    August 20, 2013 / No Comments

    1. Never open a book with weather.

    2. Avoid prologues.

    3. Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.

    4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said.”

    5. Keep your exclamation points under control.

    6. Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose.”

    7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.

    8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.

    9. Don’t go into great detail describing places and things.

    And finally:

    10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

    My most important rule is one that sums up the 10. If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. —Elmore Leonard (1925-2013)

    * * *

    Thank you, sir, for this wonderful advice, and for your many books.

    Farewell and rest in peace.

  • Magical thinking

    July 3, 2013 / No Comments

    “People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.” –Diane Setterfield

  • Quote of the day

    February 24, 2013 / No Comments

    “Exercise the writing muscle every day, even if it is only a letter, notes, a title list, a character sketch, a journal entry. Writers are like dancers, like athletes. Without that exercise, the muscles seize up.” –Jane Yolen

  • DEAR ABBY:

    January 18, 2013 / No Comments

    Maiden moonI’ve long thought about writing to you. Not to ask a question or to seek advice. Mostly I just wanted to thank you for providing decades of engaging reading material.

    My friends have often described me as their “Dear Abby,” the one person they could call in the middle of the night and talk. Much like you, I’ve heard confessions, kept secrets, gave company to the grieving and, when requested, offered advice. Very few actually followed my advice, though these same people would frequently contact me months or years later and proffer the well-worn mea culpa: “You were right. I should have listened.” However, the gift of guidance was only the smallest service I provided. In truth, much like you, I simply tried to help.

    So often when I read your column, I’d attempt to figure out how I would’ve responded to the querents were I in your shoes. Then I’d read your letter to see how closely our advice aligned. Despite our age difference, we were usually in the same time zone, though there were a few occasions when I wanted to give you 50 lashes with a wet noodle. Thankfully, whenever you realized you’d made a wrong turn and offered ill-advice, you always had the grace to pick up that noodle and flagellate yourself. Admitting you’re wrong is never easy; doing so in front of millions of people is quite commendable.

    When I learned of your death, I felt a real sense of loss. You were an icon, but a quiet one. You were famous without reveling in celebrity, and you never forgot your mission, which was to help people. Like the best writers, you used your wits and talents and common sense to serve your readers; I have always appreciated and admired that.

    Your daughter Jeanne published a lovely tribute in your honor this morning. At one point she described you as having “a deeply caring heart, a lively sense of humor and a deep devotion” to all of your readers. She also wrote that you “tried every day to educate, enlighten and entertain and to inspire civility and respect for others.” You succeeded marvelously, my dear, and for that I thank you.

    Farewell and rest in peace, Abby. — JADE WALKER