Category Archives: Writing

How to Write a Book Proposal: 8

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Hmmm… yet another example of the non-linear workings of my brain. I noticed that I haven’t exactly posted my book proposal parts in the order I promised, and… it’s possible I may have skipped the section on outlines.

It’s unfortunately true. When you write a non-fiction book proposal, you have to include an outline.

It takes a lot of work to create an outline.

You have to actually know what’s going to be in your book.

This is occasionally (um… always) a problem for me.

But wait… this post is supposed to be helpful, right? This is not my personal whining venue?

Okay, so, an outline provides a chapter-by-chapter summary of what’s in your proposed project. Writing one involves quite a bit of research, both to flesh out your initial lame and undeveloped ideas, and to find enough pithy gems to sprinkle around as sparkling promises of the wisdom to come.

You can write perfectly adequate outlines in point form, but I usually include a paragraph or two of text under each chapter heading. This gives the publisher yet another glimpse of your writing style. (You can even write your paragraphs in a tone similar to that of the final book.) It allows you to highlight your most interesting tidbits (the aforementioned gems), and allows you (theoretically, of course) to gloss over portions you haven’t quite wrestled into submission.

My outlines usually begin as brainstorming sessions. Next, I wander around in a distracted daze, asking friends, family members, and strangers things such as, “When you think of rebel activists, what comes to mind? How many activists can you name? Who’s your favorite?” and other annoying questions. Finally, I do a serious round of research, finding new connections and ideas. Quite possibly, if the proposal is rejected, this will have been a colossal waste of time. On the other hand, it may save hours at the first draft stage.

Yes. It’s possible that those of us who are complete dorks, and enjoy spending hours in the library, and are willing to research topics partly just so we can say we know a bunch of stuff, may have a teensy advantage in the world of non-fiction.




To read more about this subject:
Proposal Writing 7: Competition
Proposal Writing 6: Schedule
Proposal Writing 5: Readership
Proposal Writing 4: Format
Proposal Writing 3: The Summary
Proposal Writing 2: The Outline
Proposal Writing 1: The Reasons Why

Random Arrivals: 9

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I’ve decided I might have to do some story plotting this week. If you have ideas, feel free to speak now! Today’s segment is continued from here. A complete list of installments is at the bottom.

It’s the smell that hits me when I step into the tiny, whitewashed house — the smell of mildew and unwashed work socks and faded fried egg. Overtop of it all is a sour, yeasty odor that seems to be coming from a large glass jar on the counter.

“A kind of pickled cabbage,” Mr. Baecker explains, somewhat apologetically.

He’s brought me here to tour my future home, and I try to force myself to imagine a life here. I could hang curtains, I suppose, so the kitchen window didn’t stare directly into the plank walls of the neighbor’s wall. And I could clean. At least that’s one thing I know how to do.

“It’s nice and bright,” I say. I know I have to say something to take that half-hopeful, half-embarrassed look off his face. But as I say the words, my eyes fall on a knothole in the kitchen wall — a hole that leads directly outside.

“The wind comes through a bit in the winter, but there’s a good stove,” Mr. Baecker says.

I feel another pang of sympathy for him. He looks like a schoolboy trying desperately to impress his teacher. It scares me a little. Who am I to live up to all of these expectations? Sure, I can cook and clean for him, but this man wants to hang his life on mine, all the basis of my blonde curls and a few letters that weren’t even from me.

I suppose if I were Mattie I could tilt my chin and lower my eyelids and purr, “A little wind won’t matter, honey. We can keep each other warm.”

I blush at the thought of it, and Mr. Baecker — darn the man for watching me so closely — takes my elbow. “It’s hot today. Maybe we go back to Mrs. Jennings’ home and have a drink together.”




If you’d like to read the whole story:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8

Ten ways writing is like an addiction

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1. The more writing time you have, the more you crave.

2. When you’re not writing, you wish you were. When you are writing, you wish you could stop.

3. You hide your writing habit from friends and family.

4. You have a notebook stashed in your purse and one in your desk drawer and one, for emergencies, at the back of your closet.

5. Even when you think you can quit (as in “Yes, Honey, I’ll stay emotionally present this weekend and not imagine your relatives as characters in a 19th-century farce”) you can’t.

6. When you’re having your hair cut, having lunch with your great aunt, or sitting in church, you’re planning when your next writing time will be.

7. Your writing interferes with gainful employment.

8. You neglect the children, forget to pay the phone bill, and leave the fish unfed because you’re writing.

9. You have repeatedly quit, only to find yourself, an hour later, scribbling down novel ideas.

10. You have flashes of inspiration at night, which you can’t remember in the morning.

If you think I’m kidding with all of this, take the quiz. Just replace the world “alcohol” with “writing.”

You’ll see. It’s a disease.

Random Arrivals: 8

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It has occurred to me that if one is going to serialize a novel on a blog, it might be best to have some sort of outline. Or plan. Or at least a vague notion of plot. I am hereby declaring that I don’t have those things. This story may disintigrate at any time. Read at your own risk.

If you’re still with me…. This is a flashback, which should come later in the story. But sucks to your outlines, Piggy.

“I’ve found exactly what you need,” I whispered to Edwina. As always, we undressed and slid into bed as quickly as possible, attempting to get under the covers before the chill of the maids’ quarters penetrated our bones. That night, I left the candle stub lit for two extra, precious minutes. It would cost us a dark trip up the stairs later in the week, but it was worth it if the constant look of terror on Edwina’s face would fade a little.

“It’s a newspaper ad I saw in the breakfast room this morning, as I was cleaning the dishes away.”

“What does it say?” Even though Edwina propped herself on an elbow to see over my shoulder, she had to wait for me to read it. My mother taught me before I left home, but Edwina’s mother never knew enough to teach.

I unfolded the paper.

SUCCESSFUL MINER SEEKS WIFE ABLE TO COOK, CLEAN, AND CARE FOR PRIVATE HOME IN CROWSNEST PASS, ALBERTA.

As soon as I said the words, I pinched out the flame, drawing the covers close around my neck and feeling Edwina do the same. It was dark like a coal mine at the back of the house. With my eyes opened or closed, everything was black. Sometimes, I blinked just to figure out if I was awake or asleep.

“Where’s Alberta?” Edwina whispered.

“West. Where they’re building the railway,” I said.

“An ad for a wife.”

“There were more of them, too. But I don’t know. Would you be better off? What kind of man runs an ad like that?”

“What kind of woman ends up like this?” she said bitterly.

I scooted my toes across until they touched her cold ones under the sheet. It was the only comfort I could offer. If she was pregnant by another servant, that would be one thing. The family’s star-touched son was something different.

“Can you imagine Mrs. McLeod’s face if you told her you were going to have her grandchild?” I whispered.

“Her lips would suck themselves in until her mouth disappeared.”

“Her nose would wrinkle up and get stuck like that.”

“She’d faint.”

“She’d wet herself.”

There was nothing funny about the situation, but we giggled anyway. Then we shushed each other lest the sound carry through the floorboards.

Just before I fell asleep, I heard Edwina whisper, “she’d murder me.”




If you’d like to read the whole story:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

Naked sentimentality

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We celebrated my daughter’s birthday yesterday. Which is only literary because it made me think of this Elizabeth Stone quote all day.

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”

Yay Gregor!

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Dear Mayor Gregor Robertson:

I am writing to thank you for implementing city-wide composting with the biweekly yard waste pick-up.

I’ve been happily using my own backyard compost bin since 2007, when the garbage strike inspired me to reduce our household waste and the birth of my son increased my fear of climate change.

Earlier this month, my composting dedication was threatened by… a RAT! After I recovered from my first meeting/heart attack, we had a second encounter. I understand that climate change is a a larger issue than rodent droppings. However, facing a real live rat is quite a challenge to one’s environmental intentions.

So, you can imagine my delight when I found the notice in my mailbox. I could temporarily abandon my backyard composter, and add organic material to the yard waste bin. I have never been happier with a city initiative. (Although, the bikes lanes and the community gardens are pretty cool, too.)

With thanks,

Tanya Kyi

Proposal Writing: 7

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On to one of the most interesting parts of the non-fiction book proposal.

Competition.

Even though this section comes near the end of your proposal, you might want to research it first. It may alter the way your present your ideas. In a worst case scenario, it might make you abandon your idea.

You’ll have to do some research for this one. Search Amazon and Chapters, head to your local library, and check out the children’s bookstore. And then, stop panicking. Even when there are other books that seem, at first glance, EXACTLY the same as the book you have planned, they’re likely quite different. If you’re searching on-line, check the page count. If you’ve planned a juvenile non-fiction book about garbage dumps and you find one with the same title and the same description (irregular heart beat starting now), you might see that it’s actually a 32-page picture book, and then you have nothing to worry about. If that doesn’t work, find an actual copy and have a look. It it’s a book about your topic, but it sucks, then you’re still okay!

If you do happen to find a book that’s precisely the same book you wanted to write, you have two choices:

1. Discard your idea and move on to another project. Heartbreaking, but occasionally necessary.

2. Use other people’s projects as impetus. Find a way to present your idea that’s different from every other book. Can you alter the format? Can you make it funny where other books are serious? Can address the issue from a different point of view? Can you somehow mix fiction and non-fiction to make the treatment unique? You may find that the threat of competition has driven you to create something better.

Assuming you go ahead with your project, the point of a competition section in your proposal is to offer the publisher an overview of the books on the market, and explain why yours is different and better. The more thorough you make your research, the more confident your publisher will feel.

My example:

Competition
There are several recent biographies of young activists, as well as numerous activism guides for teens (though not many from mainstream presses). I’ve found nothing specifically designed for the middle-grade readership, and nothing in workbook form.

The closest competition is a book called Raise Your Hand, Lend a Voice, Change the World, published by Scholastic in 2007, which does provide some ideas for launching new campaigns by kids. It’s not a workbook, however, and doesn’t offer the same interactive planning tools used in Rock Your World.

Biographies

Cullis-Suzuki, Severn. Notes from Canada’s Young Activists. Vancouver: Greystone Books, 2007.

Wilson, Janet. One Peace: True Stories of Young Activists. Victoria: Orca, 2008.

Guides

Halpin, Mikki. It’s Your World: If You Don’t Like It, Change It. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2004.

Hughes, Susan. Raise Your Hand, Lend Your Voice, Change the World. Toronto: Scholastic, 2007.

Hunter, Zach. Generation Change: Get Your Hands Dirty and Change the World. Grandville: Zondervan, 2008.

Moore, Anne Elizabeth. Hey Kidz! Buy This Book: A Radical Primer on Corporate and Governmental Propaganda and Artistic Activism for Short People. Berkeley: Counterpoint, 2004.

Schwartz, Heather E. Political Activism. Mankato: Capstone Press, 2009.

Vargas, Roberto. Family Activism. San Francisco: Berrett-Koehlet, 2008.

Random Arrivals: 7

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Story continued from here.

“—and what about your own?”

I realize Mr. Baecker’s been speaking to me. He’s guiding us through the station, away from the platform. I guess I won’t be leaping back onto the train.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I must be more tired than I thought.”

“Understandable,” he says. “I was asking about your family.”

“Dead.” It’s best to say it bluntly. That way, the hurt that shoots through me comes fast, hard and short instead of slow and seeping. “They died of typhoid last year.”

It was three months with no word, no response to my packages and no acknowledgement of the cash, before I finally got word from a neighbor. By that time… by after the first month, really… I suppose I already knew the truth in the bottom of my stomach. Knew it like you know when you’re eaten a piece of bad meat, even before it sends you running for the privy.

I’m about to ask Mr. Baecker about his own family when we step out of the station and toward town. It’s my first real view of Frank and it’s like nothing I expected. I should have learned better on the train ride. I should have looked out the window at those tiny mining towns we passed yesterday — toeholds on mountainsides — and known I was going to one just like them. It was the name that mislead me, I suppose. A civilized man’s name. That, and a soap bubble of romantic hope in the back of my mind that glistened with a wildflower meadow, a creek, green fields like those I remembered from when I was small.

Now, with my first look, that bubble bursts. I can almost hear it pop. Frank is brown, and pocked, and divided into rows of greying miners’ huts in perfectly symmetrical lines between mud-streaked streets. Each hut is propped by an identical set of wood plank stairs and topped with the same brown chimney. There are only a few larger buildings off to one side. I suppose one of those must be the boarding house.

Mr. Baecker is watching me again, reading my face.

“It’s maybe not a beautiful town,” he says. “But it has good people.”




If you’d like to read the whole story:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

Proposal Writing: 6

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The next step in my proposal writing outline is “Schedule.” But do we really need to discuss this?

Tell them how much of the book is written and how long it’s going to take you to write the rest. All done.

Oh, except… make sure you add at least a month to your own estimate, before you put it down on paper, so that (a) when your great aunt calls and offers you an all-expenses paid trip to France, you can say yes (b) you don’t have to panic while writing the last chapter, becoming steadily grumpier until your family is forced to move in with the neighbors and (c) you’re not the loser calling up your publisher to ask for an extension.

Voila. Schedule. Brace yourself for my big example:

Schedule
I will need three months to complete the manuscript.




To read more about this subject:
Proposal Writing 5: Readership
Proposal Writing 4: Format
Proposal Writing 3: The Summary
Proposal Writing 2: The Outline
Proposal Writing 1: The Reasons Why

Random Arrivals: 6

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Continued from here. Oh, and I’ve changed Mr. Bailey’s name to Mr. Baecker. Sorry!

“Miss Southerland?” It’s Edwina’s surname, and I hesitate, wondering if I should correct him now or tell him the whole story later. If things go well, my own surname won’t be mine for much longer anyway.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Baecker.”

“You look younger than I expected.” His gaze drops from my eyes to my body. He’s assessing me, as if I’m a pony he’s considering.

“I assure you, I have no lame legs or obvious deformities.”

He blushes, and I bite my tongue. This is no way to begin. “I apologize, Mr. Baecker. When I’m nervous, my tongue gets away from me…”

He smiles a bit at that. “I’m a little nervous myself. Perhaps you will walk with me? I have asked for a room at the boarding house for the next few nights.”

I don’t mean to stiffen, but I do.

“For yourself, only,” he says hurriedly. “The minister, he comes to town not until Sunday afternoon.”

This is not how I imagined a wedding proposal. And believe me, I’ve spent more than a few hours imagining one, ever since I left home. Wouldn’t that just have been the cat’s meow — if I’d sailed off across the Atlantic to find work, only to be swept off my feet by some on-board knight in waterproof armor. Rich, of course. Rich enough to send for my parents and my younger brother and sister and settle us all on a lovely farm somewhere, with ponies. I’d read somewhere about wild ponies in America.

That was the dream. Not too likely, though, when I spent the whole crossing with my head in a bucket. My second dream came after I spent my time in quarantine and the agent found me a job at the MacLean house. I mean, how could a girl not dream? There I was, pouring the coffee, while the young Mr. MacLeod’s school friends sat around tipping their flasks into their cups and discussing Laurier and the possibilities of immigrating west and the new provinces coming and the land out there.

The dream was this: it would begin with an incidental brush of his hand against mine while I poured. A spark would fly between us. I would stand across the room, rubbing my hand, and he would look up to meet my eyes. He would smile slowly, the understanding dawning that I was no different than him despite my uniform and my coffee pot.

I used to drink in their conversations, so I could sound like one of them.

Ha. Look where that inclusion would have left me. Bleeding on a bed with Mrs. MacLean hysterical and the young man nowhere to be seen.




If you’d like to read the whole story:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5