Beverly A. Lauderdale

Perhaps this afternoon the delivery truck will stop before the house with cartons containing copies of my latest novel, IN FRANKLIN’S HOUSE. While I’ve seen pictures of the cover and know that the book is available on Amazon, I’ve not yet received my author’s copies. And while I’m eager for them to arrive, I’m also aware that part of the thrill is in anticipation. In imagining how the book will feel in my hands, in imagining how the pages will emit that wonderful new book fragrance, there is delight. In fact, anticipation is often the best part of an event. A young friend once said, “It’s rare for something to turn out exactly as you anticipate it. Usually the occurrence is either more-than or less-than you dreamed.” I’ve found that very true in the actual writing process and wonder if others have found that to be the case.

Due to computer problems, family needs, holidays. . .but mainly due to writing I have been far too long away from this site. But for writers perhaps being away from sites is good news. Often when immersed in a project, a writer needs to focus all energy on the manuscript. One of my students once called writers “selfish” because of the required dedication. I think that’s true, but would be interested in other opinions.
However, dedication helped bring about my latest novel, “In Franklin’s House.” Its release date is soon, but for a peek at the cover, try http://oaktreebooks.com/BevLauderdale.htm

Due to computer difficulties, I’ve not blogged recently. In the meantime, however, I finished a Christmas verse. Each year, I make my own cards with an original poem–sometimes satisfying; sometimes not–
Because my illustration this year features a page from the musical score of “The Shepherd’s Carol,” this is the resulting poem:
Evening drapes the house where
candles flame, sigh, dim;
crumbs, like winter seed, trail across
an emptied tray, and pine scent
forest-strong a week ago drifts
whisper-thin upon the room.
Yet caroled notes live in the air
ready to sing anew
(perhaps on some dry summer day)
of joy; of peace–
of love.

Last weekend I attended a Great Books Poetry event. In three sessions we read and discussed twenty-one poems, the majority written in the twentieth century. Yet whenever poems are published and regardless of the subject, poetry remains a gift to the prose writer. We prose writers learn that a poet has a point to his/her poem and thus lines effectively build toward that conclusion. We see that a poet chooses the perfect word in each line (I blanch at the number of unnecessary or “easy” words I use). We realize that words function at more than one level, and that good writing lures readers into exploring those deeper layers. We hear rhythm in poetry and understand that language appeals to the ear.
As I read aloud my third draft last night, I questioned word choices and listened for the manuscript’s cadence.

I’m a walker. As a non-athlete, it’s the one exercise I get daily (well, almost daily). Each morning I hope to set out for 30-45 minutes. True, there are all these neat health benefits–physical as well as psychological–but walking mainly benefits my writing. Over and above story ideas and descriptive images that a walk may bring, I find a sense of rhythm, which carries over to when I can sit at the computer or when I pick up a pen and paper. Each type of writing sings its own song.
Indeed, most of us read with our ears, hearing an internal sound track as we progress through sentences. In short,
walking and writing are linked companions.

We’ve just finished a yard sale, and a friend said, “What a lot of work to go through. I just donate my cast offs to a charity.” Of course, that’s an excellent way to recycle, but a yard sale offers an entire microcosm. Without leaving home, it’s possible to gain story ideas and character insights. What do people buy and why? What remarks linger after customers leave? What anecdotes beg to be developed?
At the moment, two incidents intrigue me. Take the couple traveling back to Oregon, who discovered that duffel bags containing their clothes, had somehwere, somehow blown off their car’s lugagge rack. Therefore, their first question was, “Do you have any clothing–even underwear–for sale?” Or what about the man who paid with Sacagawea dollars, explaining that when he travels, he carries these coins and leaves them as tips, because he wants others to remember him.

Over the Labor Day weekend, my husband and I were in Cedarville, California, a town of maybe 800 (counting animals and distant ranch families), when the Burners, or those who headed north from the Black Desert playa, arrived. They had been part of the yearly Burning Man Art Festival, which attracts anywhere from 20,000 to 50,000 people from international locations to this week-long celebration. It happens in the middle of nowhere. On the desert, where participants camp, temperatures soar and winds whip sand into every crevice of human and machine. Some individuals display art projects; some dress (or undress) in (or out of) colorful apparel. VeV
Vehicles wear brilliant paint and symbols and when this parade hits Cedarville, reactions vary. A portion of the locals welcome the Burners; others resent their free spirit. But undeniably everyone remembers them because of their difference.
Different is the operative word for those of us who write. Readers recall, just as do the Cedarville citizens, an event (story) that break free from the expected mold.

Yesterday I was thrilled to meet my publisher. As I drove away, I realized that not only had I learned much about plans for my forthcoming novel, but on another level I’d gained much in a personal meeting. To obtain a visual impression carries a long lasting impact and reminded me, yet again, of the necessity for writers to employ concrete “visuals,” such as expressions, clothing, body language. . . .
Add to that a character’s voice, and a writer can achieve deeper characterization. In fact I now can hear the cadence of my publisher’s speech; the warmth of her laughter, which speaks to a valuable tool: each character demands a distinctive voice, so distinctive, in fact, that a reader can hear, via his/her internal sound track, how characters sound.
That introduces the subject of the author’s voice. While blatant author intrusion is usually frowned upon, an author’s voice informs the story. His/her view of life guides everything from word choices and sentence patterns, to character relationships and theme.
A strong voice generally equals strong characters. Perhaps that one reason that after the final page, readers believe they’ve known the fictional personalities, that they have undergone a one-on-one experience with those they’d never met until they entered the world inside a book’s cover.

Yesterday I had the thrill of meeting with my publisher. As I drove away I realized that I’d not only learned much about plans for my forthcoming novel, but had gained much in meeting her. To obtain a visual impression, obviously, carries a long lasting impact and reminded me, yet again, of the necessity for writers to employ concrete “visuals”, such as expressions, clothing, body language. . . .
Add to that a character’s voice, and a writer achieves deeper characterization. In fact, I now can hear the cadence of my publisher’s spech; the warmth of her laughter, which is a valuable reminder that each character demands a distinctive voice–so distinctive, in fact, that a reader, via his/her internal sound track, can hear how characters sound.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of meeting my publisher, and as I drove away I realized that I’d not only learned much about plans for my forthcoming novel, but on another level I’m gained much in meeting her. To gain a visual impression carries a long lasting impact and that reminded me, yet again, of the necessity for writers to employ concrete “visuals”, such as expressions, clothing body language. . . .