This rare Saturday post is to inform you that, effective immediately, I will no longer be Krista G. but Krista V. Since I plan to publish under my maiden name (which, I'll just tell you, is Van Dolzer, since I'm certain you'd never guess), I thought it might be best to start streamlining everything now. Not that I'm planning to be published anytime soon (although agents, if you're reading this, feel free to change my mind)--this is just a preemptive strike.
I'll still be Krista G. on the message boards (at least until I go all kamikaze and ditch my current accounts for new ones), so to anyone who wanders over here from there, yeah, that's still me. And just so I can sneak another military reference in (and another parenthetical aside), allow me to assure you I haven't gone AWOL--I'm still here, and the same old Krista G./V. I've always been.
Finally, a Word of the Week point to the person who comes up with the best guess at my married last name. (That would be the G. part of Krista G., for those of you who are feeling slower-witted on this Saturday.) And to those of you who already know it, keep in mind that the best guess is not necessarily the closest one, but the one that makes me smile biggest:)
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Query Update
You’ve been itching/chomping at the bit/waiting on pins and needles for the numbers, haven’t you? Well, itch/chomp/wait no longer.
Total queries: 76
Pending queries: 7
Full requests: 4 (1 pending, 1 request for revisions)
Partial requests: 10 (2 pending)
Rejections: 42
Non-responses: 13
Totally psyched about that request for revisions, but since it would involve some pretty serious editing, I’m kind of…thinking right now. Regrouping. Actually, I’m taking some time to think about the entire project (which explains why I’ve only sent out one additional query since my last query update). But as I’ve been thinking, I’ve noticed a few things.
First, I’ve received no more requests since my last query update. Not too unexpected, I guess, especially since I’ve only sent out that one query. But what makes it a little more unexpected is that, between my last two query updates, all I got were requests. No joke. From mid-November to mid-December, I received exactly four query responses, two partial and two full requests, which just goes to show this business can be, and often is, a series of ebbs and flows. But as I mentioned in a previous post, those ebbs and flows have nothing to do with our worth as writers. They just are what they are. And we just are what we are. Surprisingly little correlation.
Second, non-responses and form rejections--the vast majority of those forty-two, by the way--are just a part of querying. It’s nothing personal, and no amount of bellyaching and/or composing vicious rejoinders and then posting them anonymously in that or another agent’s blog comments is likely to change it. Professionalism goes a long way in this and every industry, and in this Google-able world we live in, those sorts of slip-ups will probably come back to bite you. Now you’re all the last people on earth who needed to read that, as you’ve been nothing but cheery and delightful around here, but I just thought I’d mention it, since we can all use reminders.
Well, that’s all I got. Anyone else down in the query trenches with me? How’s it going?
Total queries: 76
Pending queries: 7
Full requests: 4 (1 pending, 1 request for revisions)
Partial requests: 10 (2 pending)
Rejections: 42
Non-responses: 13
Totally psyched about that request for revisions, but since it would involve some pretty serious editing, I’m kind of…thinking right now. Regrouping. Actually, I’m taking some time to think about the entire project (which explains why I’ve only sent out one additional query since my last query update). But as I’ve been thinking, I’ve noticed a few things.
First, I’ve received no more requests since my last query update. Not too unexpected, I guess, especially since I’ve only sent out that one query. But what makes it a little more unexpected is that, between my last two query updates, all I got were requests. No joke. From mid-November to mid-December, I received exactly four query responses, two partial and two full requests, which just goes to show this business can be, and often is, a series of ebbs and flows. But as I mentioned in a previous post, those ebbs and flows have nothing to do with our worth as writers. They just are what they are. And we just are what we are. Surprisingly little correlation.
Second, non-responses and form rejections--the vast majority of those forty-two, by the way--are just a part of querying. It’s nothing personal, and no amount of bellyaching and/or composing vicious rejoinders and then posting them anonymously in that or another agent’s blog comments is likely to change it. Professionalism goes a long way in this and every industry, and in this Google-able world we live in, those sorts of slip-ups will probably come back to bite you. Now you’re all the last people on earth who needed to read that, as you’ve been nothing but cheery and delightful around here, but I just thought I’d mention it, since we can all use reminders.
Well, that’s all I got. Anyone else down in the query trenches with me? How’s it going?
Thursday, January 28, 2010
A (Showing and) Telling Example
I got to thinking about yesterday’s post, about stripping a scene down to just those bits of information a movie would convey, and decided to give it a try with Bob. So I hunted down the shortest scene I’ve written (why experiment with ten pages?) and pruned it of every bit of telling I could find. I’m sure I missed some, but if you can ignore that, and remember that this is a rough, ROUGH draft, I’ll let you read it:) Here it is:
Two hours later, they were strolling back across the parking lot. Adair had fallen behind the others, and Seth was matching her pace.
“Your dad seems nice,” he said.
“He is.” She sent him a sidelong look. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Seth looked sideways at her, too. “For a shark, you mean.”
“No,” she replied, looking away. “For a person.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry about your…tissue,” she said after a pause.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he replied, giving his blazer pocket a weak pat. “It should come out in the wash. Maybe.”
“I’d buy you another one,” she went on, grinning slyly, “but I don’t think they sell anything like that in the Strip.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said again, with a small smile of his own. “I’m sure you could try Myron’s or something.”
“Can’t,” she replied, still grinning that sly grin. “No time. I’ll be getting ready for the Last Banquet tonight.”
He relaxed. “Tomorrow, then.”
Her expression slowly drained. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other after that.”
His smile faded, too. “Oh. Right.”
They were nearly to the limo now. He grabbed her elbow.
“How about dinner sometime, then?” he asked. “Or a movie? Or, I don’t know, cactus tipping? Or all three?”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “Cactus tipping?”
He shrugged. “My parents sent me to Wyoming for summer camp one year. The counselors up there talked about going cow tipping. But we don’t have any cows.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her elbow, which was still clenched inside his fist. “Right.”
He let it go. “Well?”
She glanced up at his face, then over at the group--or maybe just at her father--then down at the ground, then up at his face again. “Sorry, Clumsy,” she said at last, only able to meet his eyes for a moment. “But I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
His shoulders drooped. “I guess you’re right,” he mumbled. “Cactus tipping could be kind of dangerous.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was gone before it reached her eyes.
“And what about the movie? Dinner?”
She just shook her head.
“Why not?”
She chuckled without much humor. “Because in my neighborhood, sharks are about as common as cows--and Toothpicks aren’t harmless bits of wood.”
Seth swallowed hard.
Adair started to walk away, toward the rest of the group, and he didn’t stop her. As he watched her glide away from him, long red hair swaying gently as she moved, he couldn’t help but call after her, “We could still make it work.”
She stopped, looked over her shoulder, and flashed him a sad smile. “No, Clumsy,” she murmured, just loud enough to reach his ears. “We couldn’t.”
What do you think? No, really, you can say it, because I think it’s missing something, too. For one thing, we hear none of Seth’s thoughts, and since I’m writing from a close third-person point-of-view, that’s a problem. Also, as agent Kristin Nelson mentioned in her post yesterday, there are times when telling is warranted, even required, to communicate vital pieces of information. Plus, all the sparkle’s gone. So here’s the un-pruned original, now with the telling bits in blue:
Two hours later, Mr. Hermes had run out of things to blather about and they were strolling back across the parking lot. Adair had fallen behind the others, and Seth, like an ever-faithful guard dog, was matching her pace--and grasping madly at some topic of conversation.
“Your dad seems nice,” he said at last, since that was the best he could come up with.
“He is.” She sent him a sidelong look. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Seth looked sideways at her, too. “For a shark, you mean.”
“No,” she replied, looking away. “For a person.”
“Oh,” was all he said. It was the best he could do with his insides fluttering the way they were.
“I’m sorry about your…tissue,” she said after a pause. But she sounded like she was trying to hold off a snort.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he replied, giving his blazer pocket a weak pat. “It should come out in the wash. Maybe.”
“I’d buy you another one,” she went on, grinning slyly, “but I don’t think they sell anything like that in the Strip.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said again, with a small smile of his own. “I’m sure you could try Myron’s or something.”
“Can’t,” she replied, still grinning that sly grin. “No time. I’ll be getting ready for the Last Banquet tonight.”
He actually felt himself starting to relax. “Tomorrow, then.”
Her expression slowly drained, like a smiley face balloon deflating. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other after that.”
His smile faded, too. “Oh. Right.”
They were nearly to the limo now, but he didn’t want to be. He wanted to see her smile again and know that he’d been the one to put it there. And he didn’t want tomorrow to be the last time he ever saw her. So he grabbed her elbow.
“How about dinner sometime, then?” he asked, letting the words tumble off his tongue before he had a chance to think better of them. “Or a movie? Or, I don’t know, cactus tipping? Or all three?”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “Cactus tipping?”
He shrugged. “My parents sent me to Wyoming for summer camp one year. The counselors up there talked about going cow tipping. But we don’t have any cows.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her elbow, which was still clenched inside his fist. “Right.”
He let it go. “Well?”
She glanced up at his face, then over at the group--or maybe just at her father--then down at the ground, then up at his face again. “Sorry, Clumsy,” she said at last, only able to meet his eyes for a moment. “But I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
His shoulders drooped. “I guess you’re right,” he mumbled. “Cactus tipping could be kind of dangerous.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was gone before it reached her eyes.
“And what about the movie? Dinner?”
She just shook her head.
He’d already come this far; he might as well go all the way. “Why not?”
She chuckled without much humor. “Because in my neighborhood, sharks are about as common as cows--and Toothpicks aren’t harmless bits of wood.”
Seth swallowed hard, felt his Adam’s apple bob. He’d heard of Toothpicks, of course, dirty weapons used to kill a Toother with the electric pulses from his own Wingtooth, but he’d never seen one. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to.
Adair started to walk away, toward the rest of the group, and he didn’t stop her. He wanted to tell her about his Wingtooth--and the headaches--but he couldn’t, not without going back on his word. Still, as he watched her glide away from him, long red hair swaying gently as she moved, he couldn’t help but call after her, “We could still make it work.”
She stopped, looked over her shoulder, and flashed him the same sad smile his mom had used to tell him there was no Santa Claus. “No, Clumsy,” she murmured, just loud enough to reach his ears. “We couldn’t.”
Still not satisfied? Me, neither. The scene needs trimming, as it could still do without some of this telling, and because there are always words to cut. Like I said, though, this is a very rough draft, so I’ll be coming back to it. The version I end up with will likely be somewhere in between these two, if I don’t scrap or rework it altogether.
My final word, then, is that a scene needs both showing and telling, though much more show than tell. And getting the balance right takes practice--but doesn't everything?
Two hours later, they were strolling back across the parking lot. Adair had fallen behind the others, and Seth was matching her pace.
“Your dad seems nice,” he said.
“He is.” She sent him a sidelong look. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Seth looked sideways at her, too. “For a shark, you mean.”
“No,” she replied, looking away. “For a person.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry about your…tissue,” she said after a pause.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he replied, giving his blazer pocket a weak pat. “It should come out in the wash. Maybe.”
“I’d buy you another one,” she went on, grinning slyly, “but I don’t think they sell anything like that in the Strip.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said again, with a small smile of his own. “I’m sure you could try Myron’s or something.”
“Can’t,” she replied, still grinning that sly grin. “No time. I’ll be getting ready for the Last Banquet tonight.”
He relaxed. “Tomorrow, then.”
Her expression slowly drained. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other after that.”
His smile faded, too. “Oh. Right.”
They were nearly to the limo now. He grabbed her elbow.
“How about dinner sometime, then?” he asked. “Or a movie? Or, I don’t know, cactus tipping? Or all three?”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “Cactus tipping?”
He shrugged. “My parents sent me to Wyoming for summer camp one year. The counselors up there talked about going cow tipping. But we don’t have any cows.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her elbow, which was still clenched inside his fist. “Right.”
He let it go. “Well?”
She glanced up at his face, then over at the group--or maybe just at her father--then down at the ground, then up at his face again. “Sorry, Clumsy,” she said at last, only able to meet his eyes for a moment. “But I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
His shoulders drooped. “I guess you’re right,” he mumbled. “Cactus tipping could be kind of dangerous.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was gone before it reached her eyes.
“And what about the movie? Dinner?”
She just shook her head.
“Why not?”
She chuckled without much humor. “Because in my neighborhood, sharks are about as common as cows--and Toothpicks aren’t harmless bits of wood.”
Seth swallowed hard.
Adair started to walk away, toward the rest of the group, and he didn’t stop her. As he watched her glide away from him, long red hair swaying gently as she moved, he couldn’t help but call after her, “We could still make it work.”
She stopped, looked over her shoulder, and flashed him a sad smile. “No, Clumsy,” she murmured, just loud enough to reach his ears. “We couldn’t.”
What do you think? No, really, you can say it, because I think it’s missing something, too. For one thing, we hear none of Seth’s thoughts, and since I’m writing from a close third-person point-of-view, that’s a problem. Also, as agent Kristin Nelson mentioned in her post yesterday, there are times when telling is warranted, even required, to communicate vital pieces of information. Plus, all the sparkle’s gone. So here’s the un-pruned original, now with the telling bits in blue:
Two hours later, Mr. Hermes had run out of things to blather about and they were strolling back across the parking lot. Adair had fallen behind the others, and Seth, like an ever-faithful guard dog, was matching her pace--and grasping madly at some topic of conversation.
“Your dad seems nice,” he said at last, since that was the best he could come up with.
“He is.” She sent him a sidelong look. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Seth looked sideways at her, too. “For a shark, you mean.”
“No,” she replied, looking away. “For a person.”
“Oh,” was all he said. It was the best he could do with his insides fluttering the way they were.
“I’m sorry about your…tissue,” she said after a pause. But she sounded like she was trying to hold off a snort.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he replied, giving his blazer pocket a weak pat. “It should come out in the wash. Maybe.”
“I’d buy you another one,” she went on, grinning slyly, “but I don’t think they sell anything like that in the Strip.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said again, with a small smile of his own. “I’m sure you could try Myron’s or something.”
“Can’t,” she replied, still grinning that sly grin. “No time. I’ll be getting ready for the Last Banquet tonight.”
He actually felt himself starting to relax. “Tomorrow, then.”
Her expression slowly drained, like a smiley face balloon deflating. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other after that.”
His smile faded, too. “Oh. Right.”
They were nearly to the limo now, but he didn’t want to be. He wanted to see her smile again and know that he’d been the one to put it there. And he didn’t want tomorrow to be the last time he ever saw her. So he grabbed her elbow.
“How about dinner sometime, then?” he asked, letting the words tumble off his tongue before he had a chance to think better of them. “Or a movie? Or, I don’t know, cactus tipping? Or all three?”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “Cactus tipping?”
He shrugged. “My parents sent me to Wyoming for summer camp one year. The counselors up there talked about going cow tipping. But we don’t have any cows.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her elbow, which was still clenched inside his fist. “Right.”
He let it go. “Well?”
She glanced up at his face, then over at the group--or maybe just at her father--then down at the ground, then up at his face again. “Sorry, Clumsy,” she said at last, only able to meet his eyes for a moment. “But I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
His shoulders drooped. “I guess you’re right,” he mumbled. “Cactus tipping could be kind of dangerous.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was gone before it reached her eyes.
“And what about the movie? Dinner?”
She just shook her head.
He’d already come this far; he might as well go all the way. “Why not?”
She chuckled without much humor. “Because in my neighborhood, sharks are about as common as cows--and Toothpicks aren’t harmless bits of wood.”
Seth swallowed hard, felt his Adam’s apple bob. He’d heard of Toothpicks, of course, dirty weapons used to kill a Toother with the electric pulses from his own Wingtooth, but he’d never seen one. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to.
Adair started to walk away, toward the rest of the group, and he didn’t stop her. He wanted to tell her about his Wingtooth--and the headaches--but he couldn’t, not without going back on his word. Still, as he watched her glide away from him, long red hair swaying gently as she moved, he couldn’t help but call after her, “We could still make it work.”
She stopped, looked over her shoulder, and flashed him the same sad smile his mom had used to tell him there was no Santa Claus. “No, Clumsy,” she murmured, just loud enough to reach his ears. “We couldn’t.”
Still not satisfied? Me, neither. The scene needs trimming, as it could still do without some of this telling, and because there are always words to cut. Like I said, though, this is a very rough draft, so I’ll be coming back to it. The version I end up with will likely be somewhere in between these two, if I don’t scrap or rework it altogether.
My final word, then, is that a scene needs both showing and telling, though much more show than tell. And getting the balance right takes practice--but doesn't everything?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Showing vs. Telling--at the Movies
My husband (who I normally call Honey Bear--and will for the rest of this and every post, since it has so much more character than plain, old “my husband”) is one of those someday novelists. You know the ones. They’re always saying things like, “Someday, when I write my book, I won’t spend so long coming up with character names,” or “Someday, when I write my book, I’ll outline it first.”
Those are the kinds of things Honey Bear always says, at least. And when he says things like that, I smile and respond, “Of course you will, Honey Bear.” Because we all know how those someday novelists are.
But for all of my pleasant-faced condescension, I usually find myself thinking about the points he makes (like that whole outlining thing, for instance), and tweaking my ideas about writing accordingly. In fact, something he said recently changed my entire mindset about the story-old struggle between showing and telling: “Someday, when I write my book,” he said, “I’ll probably write it like I’m describing a movie, since I see more than hear the scenes in my head.”
That got me thinking about movies in general, and the methods by which they communicate their stories, and I realized something: Movies, by their very nature, have to SHOW EVERYTHING. I mean, how annoying would it be if the character wandered onto the screen and some disembodied voice announced, “Margaret was tired when she got home from the party, and her feet hurt”? Instead, we see Margaret stagger through her front door, toss her purse on the console, massage the back of her neck, and plop down on the sofa to take her heels off.
It takes a lot longer to say all that, of course--the movie communicates that information in a few seconds--but that’s why they say a picture’s worth a thousand words. So maybe we picked the wrong medium, but now we’re stuck with it, and all the description that goes along with it.
Now I realize film and literature aren’t exactly interchangeable; both have their own rules and standards, and one of the advantages of books is their ability to interpret the action in (hopefully) witty or unexpected asides. Heck, even movies benefit from the occasional voiceover. (The fairy-tale-esque narration at the beginning of PENELOPE, for example, is spot-on.) But just as voiceover should be used sparingly in film, so should tell-heavy asides be used only once in a while in books--no matter how witty or unexpected.
Those are the kinds of things Honey Bear always says, at least. And when he says things like that, I smile and respond, “Of course you will, Honey Bear.” Because we all know how those someday novelists are.
But for all of my pleasant-faced condescension, I usually find myself thinking about the points he makes (like that whole outlining thing, for instance), and tweaking my ideas about writing accordingly. In fact, something he said recently changed my entire mindset about the story-old struggle between showing and telling: “Someday, when I write my book,” he said, “I’ll probably write it like I’m describing a movie, since I see more than hear the scenes in my head.”
That got me thinking about movies in general, and the methods by which they communicate their stories, and I realized something: Movies, by their very nature, have to SHOW EVERYTHING. I mean, how annoying would it be if the character wandered onto the screen and some disembodied voice announced, “Margaret was tired when she got home from the party, and her feet hurt”? Instead, we see Margaret stagger through her front door, toss her purse on the console, massage the back of her neck, and plop down on the sofa to take her heels off.
It takes a lot longer to say all that, of course--the movie communicates that information in a few seconds--but that’s why they say a picture’s worth a thousand words. So maybe we picked the wrong medium, but now we’re stuck with it, and all the description that goes along with it.
Now I realize film and literature aren’t exactly interchangeable; both have their own rules and standards, and one of the advantages of books is their ability to interpret the action in (hopefully) witty or unexpected asides. Heck, even movies benefit from the occasional voiceover. (The fairy-tale-esque narration at the beginning of PENELOPE, for example, is spot-on.) But just as voiceover should be used sparingly in film, so should tell-heavy asides be used only once in a while in books--no matter how witty or unexpected.
Monday, January 25, 2010
(Work-in-) Progress Report: Bob
Word count (to the nearest thousand): 31,000
Status: Still working on the first draft
Attitude: Upbeat
Considering that I’ve been writing Bob for more than three months now, 31,000 words (11,000 more than last time) really isn’t all that much. But the thing is, I spent a solid half, maybe two-thirds, of the past month on vacation and/or stuck. And when I say stuck, I mean fingers-dead-over-the-keyboard, spit-dribbling-down-my-chin, writer’s-block-the-size-of-the-polar-ice-cap stuck. So 31,000 words is an accomplishment. Heck, 31,000 words is enough to throw a party over.
Rest assured, Bob is still very much Not Perfect Yet. But being able to put words and sentences and whole chapters behind me has left me in a sparkling mood these past few weeks. And the farther into this one I get, the more I love the characters and the storyline and just the world I’m (slowly) building. Yes, my excitement for this project is actually increasing, which is unusual. What’s even more unusual is that my excitement is increasing even as it’s taking longer to write. And when I say longer, I mean MONTHS longer; at this rate, I expect to finish Bob’s first draft in about twice the time it took me to produce my others. But that’s all right. Someday, he’ll be finished.
A few more notes on Bob. He’s young adult science fiction (have I mentioned that already?), set about thirty-five years in the future. His MC’s name is Seth Tucker. And he’s set in Las Vegas, which, I might add, is no longer the city of sin but the biomedia capital of the universe.
So how about you? I’d love to hear more about your works-in-progress. Genres, word counts, current status--fill us in.
Status: Still working on the first draft
Attitude: Upbeat
Considering that I’ve been writing Bob for more than three months now, 31,000 words (11,000 more than last time) really isn’t all that much. But the thing is, I spent a solid half, maybe two-thirds, of the past month on vacation and/or stuck. And when I say stuck, I mean fingers-dead-over-the-keyboard, spit-dribbling-down-my-chin, writer’s-block-the-size-of-the-polar-ice-cap stuck. So 31,000 words is an accomplishment. Heck, 31,000 words is enough to throw a party over.
Rest assured, Bob is still very much Not Perfect Yet. But being able to put words and sentences and whole chapters behind me has left me in a sparkling mood these past few weeks. And the farther into this one I get, the more I love the characters and the storyline and just the world I’m (slowly) building. Yes, my excitement for this project is actually increasing, which is unusual. What’s even more unusual is that my excitement is increasing even as it’s taking longer to write. And when I say longer, I mean MONTHS longer; at this rate, I expect to finish Bob’s first draft in about twice the time it took me to produce my others. But that’s all right. Someday, he’ll be finished.
A few more notes on Bob. He’s young adult science fiction (have I mentioned that already?), set about thirty-five years in the future. His MC’s name is Seth Tucker. And he’s set in Las Vegas, which, I might add, is no longer the city of sin but the biomedia capital of the universe.
So how about you? I’d love to hear more about your works-in-progress. Genres, word counts, current status--fill us in.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Word of the Week Wrap-up
Thanks to everyone who participated in the inaugural round of Word of the Week. I’m sure more will join in next time, when they realize how much fun they’re missing. But if not, I guess we’ll just have more points for less people. Nothing like a little point inflation to boost one’s self-esteem:)
And now for the definition. A kris, according to the all-knowing Merriam-Webster, is a Malay or Indonesian dagger with a ridged serpentine blade. (Can't help but grin wickedly as I type that.) Keep that in mind as you read the two winning entries:
Myrna Foster: “Kris, I'd say your nickname is more of a proper noun than just a plain old noun, but maybe you don't like being proper?”
Charity Bradford: “The taunting never stops. 'Kris cross, polka dots, if he touches you get your cootie shots!'”
Yeah, I don't think krises like being proper--and I'm pretty sure, if he touches you, you'll need more than just cootie shots:)
A point to both winners, who, you probably noticed, were also the only two people to play the game. See how generous, albeit Communistic, I am? Makes you want to play next time, doesn’t it? (Although you should in no way construe that as a promise to evenly distribute the points every time.)
In any case, have a great weekend, all! I’ll be back next week with a (work-in-) progress report. And maybe a query update. And maybe a few other thoughts that have been rolling around my brain of late...
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Massacring the Art of French Cooking: Reine de Saba
Today is my birthday, the big two-six. Now I tell you that not to solicit your happy birthdays (although you're welcome to leave your best birthday songs in the comments, if you like), but as an explanation for why we baked a cake.
Some friends invited us over for dinner Monday night, so we decided to turn it into an early birthday celebration and offered to make dessert. So we needed to bake a cake and, since it was going to be my birthday, not just any cake--the great Reine de Saba, or Queen of Sheba, a chocolate and almond masterpiece rumored to be Julia Child's favorite cake.
We first encountered the mighty Queen when we rented JULIE AND JULIA several weeks ago. My husband and I are closet foodies, so JULIE AND JULIA sounded interesting to us both. (Yeah, my husband's pretty cool like that.) By the end of the movie, all we had to do was take one look at each other, and we knew: We needed a copy of MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING.
Now French cuisine is to the culinary world what Shakespeare is to the literary one: that aged sage who seems more myth than truth, whose works are thick and incomparable and define the entire discipline. So the Queen of Sheba is more than just a cake; it's an aspiration, a distant mountain peak, a legend.
We made sure we had all the right ingredients and equipment. We made a special trip to procure the things we lacked. And then we started baking. My husband separated his first eggs (six of them, no less--the Queen doesn't trifle with silly things like baking powder). I beat my first egg whites (until soft peaks started to form, then added a tablespoon of sugar and kept beating, until there was nothing soft about them). We folded everything together. And then we eased our cake rounds into the oven and set the timer for twenty-two minutes (three less than Julia called for, just in case our oven wasn't properly French).
Twenty-two minutes later, when I inserted my fork exactly three inches from the edge (should have been a needle, but I figured a tine was good enough), it came out a little dirty. Three more minutes on the timer, then another fork into the cake. This one came out clean. Which meant it was time for the final test: the jiggle.
According to Julia, the center of the cake should "move slightly" when jiggled. The whole point of the Queen is to leave her slightly underdone so as to preserve her creamy texture.
So we jiggled. And got nothing.
There was nothing we could do about it by then, of course, so that was exactly what we did. We iced her as if nothing unusual had happened (in nearly half a pound of butter mixed with four squares of baker's chocolate), we pressed a few leftover slivered almonds into her sides, we took her to our friends' place. And when it was time for dessert and I sampled the first bite, I knew: We'd ruined her. The Queen of Sheba was as dry as a slab of day-old bread. Chocolate and almond day-old bread, but day-old bread, nonetheless.
What makes this an even greater tragedy is the fact that we're on a no-dessert diet for the next month and a half. Our health insurance company does these wellness challenges, and for each one you complete, you get a partial refund on your premiums. So the first wellness challenge is to not eat or drink any desserts, treats, or soda for two months. Two whole months. You do get a few free days, so you've got to make the most of them. And we wasted one of ours on the over-baked Queen.
Still, we will not be defeated. We refuse to be bested by the French. So we're planning to crack that cookbook again in about a week and give another recipe a try. If our next attempt is a success, I'm sure you'll hear about it. And if our next attempt is as, uh, massacre-ful as this last one, I'm sure you'll hear about that, too:)
Some friends invited us over for dinner Monday night, so we decided to turn it into an early birthday celebration and offered to make dessert. So we needed to bake a cake and, since it was going to be my birthday, not just any cake--the great Reine de Saba, or Queen of Sheba, a chocolate and almond masterpiece rumored to be Julia Child's favorite cake.
We first encountered the mighty Queen when we rented JULIE AND JULIA several weeks ago. My husband and I are closet foodies, so JULIE AND JULIA sounded interesting to us both. (Yeah, my husband's pretty cool like that.) By the end of the movie, all we had to do was take one look at each other, and we knew: We needed a copy of MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING.
Now French cuisine is to the culinary world what Shakespeare is to the literary one: that aged sage who seems more myth than truth, whose works are thick and incomparable and define the entire discipline. So the Queen of Sheba is more than just a cake; it's an aspiration, a distant mountain peak, a legend.
We made sure we had all the right ingredients and equipment. We made a special trip to procure the things we lacked. And then we started baking. My husband separated his first eggs (six of them, no less--the Queen doesn't trifle with silly things like baking powder). I beat my first egg whites (until soft peaks started to form, then added a tablespoon of sugar and kept beating, until there was nothing soft about them). We folded everything together. And then we eased our cake rounds into the oven and set the timer for twenty-two minutes (three less than Julia called for, just in case our oven wasn't properly French).
Twenty-two minutes later, when I inserted my fork exactly three inches from the edge (should have been a needle, but I figured a tine was good enough), it came out a little dirty. Three more minutes on the timer, then another fork into the cake. This one came out clean. Which meant it was time for the final test: the jiggle.
According to Julia, the center of the cake should "move slightly" when jiggled. The whole point of the Queen is to leave her slightly underdone so as to preserve her creamy texture.
So we jiggled. And got nothing.
There was nothing we could do about it by then, of course, so that was exactly what we did. We iced her as if nothing unusual had happened (in nearly half a pound of butter mixed with four squares of baker's chocolate), we pressed a few leftover slivered almonds into her sides, we took her to our friends' place. And when it was time for dessert and I sampled the first bite, I knew: We'd ruined her. The Queen of Sheba was as dry as a slab of day-old bread. Chocolate and almond day-old bread, but day-old bread, nonetheless.
What makes this an even greater tragedy is the fact that we're on a no-dessert diet for the next month and a half. Our health insurance company does these wellness challenges, and for each one you complete, you get a partial refund on your premiums. So the first wellness challenge is to not eat or drink any desserts, treats, or soda for two months. Two whole months. You do get a few free days, so you've got to make the most of them. And we wasted one of ours on the over-baked Queen.
Still, we will not be defeated. We refuse to be bested by the French. So we're planning to crack that cookbook again in about a week and give another recipe a try. If our next attempt is a success, I'm sure you'll hear about it. And if our next attempt is as, uh, massacre-ful as this last one, I'm sure you'll hear about that, too:)
Monday, January 18, 2010
Word of the Week
I'm introducing a new series on the blog today, which I'm calling--you guessed it--"Word of the Week." You can think of it as the writerly equivalent of an improv game, with strange rules and random points that really don't win you much. But I'm hoping it'll be kind of fun, and also build our writer vocabularies with strange and random interesting and very useful words.
To play, just leave a comment that uses the current Word of the Week. It can be a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph, or even a novella, but keep in mind that I've read HAMLET and am a firm believer in the idea that brevity is the soul of wit (which, as we all know, is one of the few worthwhile things Polonius ever said).
Now your comment shouldn't necessarily define the Word; rather, it should use the Word in a creative way. So if the Word were penny loafers (not actually a word, of course, but you get the idea), I might submit the comment, "Bill, your penny loafers are showing," or even, "As she dumped her pocket change into Jerald and Josephina's chubby palms, Liza mumbled under her breath, 'Here's your stupid penny, loafers.'" But then, the real Word of the Week isn't likely to be so mundane. Or recognizable:)
And now for the game's two rules, one of which I care about and the other of which just seemed like a good idea (I'll let you decide which is which): You may submit only one entry, and you may NOT look up the Word's actual definition. Now I realize I can't really police that second rule, but the game will be much more fun, and funnier, if everyone plays along.
On Friday, I'll reveal the Word's definition and award however many points I feel like awarding. And the winner/winners will receive fame and glory immemorial, or at least until we play again.
You got that? You ready to play? All right, here's the inaugural Word of the Week, which is a noun: kris.
Happy commenting.
To play, just leave a comment that uses the current Word of the Week. It can be a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph, or even a novella, but keep in mind that I've read HAMLET and am a firm believer in the idea that brevity is the soul of wit (which, as we all know, is one of the few worthwhile things Polonius ever said).
Now your comment shouldn't necessarily define the Word; rather, it should use the Word in a creative way. So if the Word were penny loafers (not actually a word, of course, but you get the idea), I might submit the comment, "Bill, your penny loafers are showing," or even, "As she dumped her pocket change into Jerald and Josephina's chubby palms, Liza mumbled under her breath, 'Here's your stupid penny, loafers.'" But then, the real Word of the Week isn't likely to be so mundane. Or recognizable:)
And now for the game's two rules, one of which I care about and the other of which just seemed like a good idea (I'll let you decide which is which): You may submit only one entry, and you may NOT look up the Word's actual definition. Now I realize I can't really police that second rule, but the game will be much more fun, and funnier, if everyone plays along.
On Friday, I'll reveal the Word's definition and award however many points I feel like awarding. And the winner/winners will receive fame and glory immemorial, or at least until we play again.
You got that? You ready to play? All right, here's the inaugural Word of the Week, which is a noun: kris.
Happy commenting.
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