“The Elephants of Style: A Trunkload of Tips on the Big Issues and Gray Areas of Contemporary American English”, by Bill Walsh

Pg. 194

HOMICIDE BOMBINGS Officials and advocates trying to shift the focus from suicide bombers to their victims coined this term, and they can have it. It’s really more a play on words than a serious attempt at a better description. Doesn’t bomber already imply homicidal intent? People who kill themselves by taking pills or firing a gun are called suicides, not suicide pill-takers or suicide gunmen. And bombers of Timonthy McVeigh’s ilk are simply called bombers; the homicide is understood. Suicide bombings are called suicide bombings to set them apart from McVeigh-style bombings; if you think that somehow glorifies the bomber, I think you’re nuts.

“Lapsing Into a Comma: A Curmudgeon’s Guide to the Many Things That Can Go Wrong in Print–and How to Avoid Them”, by Bill Walsh

Pg. 155

INTO, ONTO The distinctions between into and in to–and between onto and on to–are quite confusing, as the definition of the one-word forumations is the two-word formulations. The important thing to keep in mind is that idioms ending in in and on should be preserved. So it’s logging on to the Internet, not logging onto. And the absurdity of The suspect turned himself into police should be readily apparent.

“The First Five Pages: A Writer’s Guide to Staying Out of the Rejection Pile”, by Noah Lukeman

Pg. 11

Most people are against books on writing on principle. So am I. It’s ridiculous to set down rules when it comes to art. Most of the truly great artists have broken all the rules, and this is precisely what has made them great. What would have become of Beethoven’s music if he’d chased rules instead of inspiration? Of van Gogh’s paintings?

There are no rules to assure great writing, but there are ways to avoid bad writing. This, simply, is the focus of this book: to learn how to identify and avoid bad writing. We all fall prey to it, to different degrees, even the greatest writers, even in the midst of their greatest works. By scrutinizing the following examples of what not to do, you will learn to spot these ailments in your own writing; by working with the solutions and exercises, you may, over time, bridge the gap and come to a realization of what to do. These is no guarantee that you will come to this realization, but if you do, at least it will be your own. Because ultimately, the only person who can teach you about writing is yourself.

“How to Grow a Novel: The Most Common Mistakes Writers Make and How to Overcome Them”, by Sol Stein

Pg. 4

What is it then that the reader wants?

The reader of fiction may welcome insight and information, yes, but is primarily seeking an experience different from and greater than his or her everyday experiences in life. When a child claps its hands with joy at the promise of being read a story, the child is anticipating pleasure, an experience that excites its imagination and is unlike the child’s daily routines. Children treasure their books. The sight of those books reflects the memory of experiences that were full of wonder.

“You’re Not Fooling Anyone When You Take Your Laptop to a Coffee Shop: Scalzi on Writing”, by John Scalzi

Pg. 187

The most important thing the move taught me was simply this: There is always another way. What is required is the will to confront change from without and roll with it so it becomes change from within… There is always another way. Remember that when your own challenges and changes show up and try to knock you back on your ass. Maybe they will knock you on your ass, but it’s up to you how long you stay sprawled out.

Thoughts:

Well worth reading. Several funny moments where I actually laughed out loud. Contains useful, practical advice about writing, especially for those who strive to make a real living off of it and have no qualms about doing uninspired work.

“Beyond the Writers’ Workshop: New Ways to Write Creative Nonfiction”, by Carol Bly

Pg. xxii

Writers must do the hard psychological work of recognizing that some things are not “just the way life is, I guess” but actually evil — whereas other things are neither “just the way life is, I guess” nor evil, but remarkably beautiful or remarkably just — worth praising… A writer has to do the hard psychological work of living with terrific mood swings… That’s logical enough, since the people who don’t experience terrific mood swings are people who figure everything’s more or less just the way it is… Writers do the hard psychological work of forming their opinions as resolutely as they can, while knowing at the same time that they may be totally mistaken.

Thoughts:

The first 3 chapters and chapter 6 of this book were wonderful. The rest seemed superfluous and a solid 5 chapters out of 12 focus on how to teach creative writing, which didn’t seem at all useful for people who are writers and not teachers.

“Beginnings, Middles and Ends: How to get your stories off to a roaring start, keep them tight and crisp throughout, and end them with a wallop”, by Nancy Kress

Pg. 2

Learning about writing won’t help you write better unless you actually apply what you learn to a story in progress — just as learning about the ideal golf swing won’t improve your score unless you actually practice on the links. There’s no substitute for practice. The Mariana Trench doesn’t get crossed by discussing it.

Nor will this book help you improve the quality of the story in your head. That vision comes from everything about you: your experiences, your imagination, your beliefs about the world, your powers of perception, your interests, your sophistication, your previous reading, your soul. Vision, sometimes called talent, is not a teachable attribute.

What is teachable, and what this book can help you with, is craft. Craft is the process of getting the story in your head onto the page in a form that readers can follow, and remain interested in, and enjoy.

“Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life”, by Anne Lamott

Pg. 6-7

You try to sit down at approximately the same time every day. This is how you train your unconscious to kick in for you creatively. So you sit down at, say, nine every morning, or 10 every night. You put the piece of paper in a typewriter, or you turn on your computer and bring up the right file, and then you stare at it for an hour or so. You look at the ceiling, and over at the clock, yawn, and then you stare at it for an hour or so. You begin rocking, just a little at first, and then like a huge autistic child. You look at the ceiling, and over at the clock, yawn, and stare the paper again. Then, with your fingers poised on the keyboard, you squint at an image that is forming in your mind — a scene, a locale, a character, whatever — and you try to quiet your mind so you can hear what that landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind. The other voices are banshees and drunken monkeys. They are the voices of anxiety, judgment, doom, guilt. Also, severe hypochondria. There may be a Nurse Ratched-like listing of things that must be done right this moment: foods that must come out of the freezer, appointments that must be canceled or made, hairs that must be tweezed. But you hold an imaginary gun to your head and make yourself stay at the desk. There is a vague pain at the base of your neck. It crosses your mind that you have meningitis. Then the phone rings and you look up at the ceiling with fury, summon every ounce of noblesse oblige, and answer the call politely, with maybe just the merest hint of irritation. The caller asks if you’re working, and you say yeah, because you are.

Yet somehow in the face of all this, you clear a space for the writing voice, hacking away at the others with machetes, and you begin to compose sentences. You begin to string words together like beads to tell a story.