Never been a Miley Cyrus fan, but I love this version of Bob Dylan’s classic, You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome.
“It’s a dark, smog-choked New Delhi winter.”
It’s a world and culture unfamiliar to me. Damyanti Biswas’s novel, You Beneath Your Skin, is steeped in cultural references and customs that are lost on me and at times left me confused. So what? Her story and her characters transcended the cultural divide and drew me in. Her heroes are flawed, her villains are sympathetic (except maybe one in particular) and their individual stories are compelling. People talk about how a novel needs a strong beginning, but it’s the end that either leaves you disappointed, or glad you read the book. Biswas nails the ending. So satisfying in every way.
“I’ve known for a while,” he said, breaking into Hindi, running a finger over a discolured patch on her forearm. “I’ve got them, too. Can’t show you because they are on the inside.”
What really counts is the you beneath your skin.
it’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there.
Every nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don’t even hear the murmur of a prayer
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there
take a look at the second line of that verse.
it’s too long. the rhythm is off. it’s grammatically incorrect.
and he has to drag it out to make it work.
he’s just telling the story. the way it is.
If you’re an author trying to get published, rejection is part of the process. I have no problem with that. As part of my day job as an architect, we submit our qualifications for projects and are rejected 90% of the time. It’s not that we’re not qualified; most of the time it just means we’re not a good fit for that particular project. It’s the same with writing. And though I’m accustomed to rejection in general, I’d like to see a little more success with my writing.
Authors seeking to be published by a traditional publisher generally seek agent representation first. Thus, agents are the first to offer rejection. Here’s a typical rejection letter (email) from an agent.
Dear Mr. Bird:
Thank you for your recent submission. We enjoyed reviewing your work. Unfortunately, at this time, we do not feel we have a good place for you on our client list. We wish you all the best success in the future.
Just a form letter. No real feedback. Nothing to tell you if your writing is truly bad or if it’s just a wrong fit for that particular agent. And this judgement is based typically on no more than the first 50 pages of your novel, and more often, the first 10 pages. I can also imagine than an agent can make the assessment after the first few paragraphs.
Here’s another I recieved.
Dear Mr. Bird,
Thank you very much for your query below. I liked the premise of this story, but I am sorry to say that I did not connect with the writing in the way I had hoped. For this reason, and with regret, I cannot offer you representation. However, I wish you every success and hope you will find the perfect home for this material.
Hey! Positive feedback. This was for Heather Girl and apparently she liked the premise of my story! So that tells my I’m not completely off base with the overall story idea. This is good. Great, actually. Now the bad news.
I did not connect with the writing.
In other words, my writing sucks.
This is what authors tend to do. One minute you’re receiving the Pulitzer, the next your pages are not worth lining the bottom of a bird cage. We’re an insecure bunch. Reality is somewhere in the middle.
After a few days of self-loathing, I decided to try to figure out why the agent might not have connected with my writing. Working under the assumption that she started at the beginning, that’s where I start. And one of the first rules of novel writing is to have a good opening hook. So I spent a few days trying to craft a hook. That was more or less a useless excercise.
Did the agent really not connect with my writing because I didn’t have a clever hook? I doubt it. It’s more than that.
What did I do?
I scrapped the first three chapters altogether. I’ve moved one of my favorite scenes to the beginning of the book. I think it’s more engaging and my hope is that readers will be caught up in the story right from the beginning and be completely unconcerned about the words I use to tell the story. It’s the story, after all, stupid. That stupid is for me.
Yes, it’s taken a lot of work to rearrange the pieces and I’ve lost some of my favorite passages in those first three chapters, but wasn’t it William Faulkner who advised authors to “kill your darlings”?
I’m almost ready to begin another round of agent submittals. We’ll see if any of this has helped.
saturday morning music. actually, this is better suited for a lonely friday night.
all you need is a loose-stringed guitar and a kick drum. and that voice.
Mercy sakes. That woman scares me. She sure don’t smile much. Not that she should be smiling at her brother’s funeral, but she can hardly muster even a polite smile.
She got a little bit of her daddy in her. At least what I seen of him when I first got locked up at Estelle. He was always kind of quiet and respectful, but George had a side to him, mainly if the guards tried to give him any grief. They was bought and paid for and he let them know. Sometimes with just a look. I can see that in her.
Didn’t even know he had a daughter. It’s a curious thing he never mentioned her to me. Course, looking back, I can see that he only talked about his boy cause he came to visit now and then. But she was her daddy’s girl. I can see that, in spite of how she feels about him now. Reckon I can understand her feelings.
There’s a little something that’s not quite right. She’s ailing in some way. I can see it in her eyes. And she’s a little twitchy. But that ain’t the worst of it.
She got that dark speck growing in her. It’s the way she talked to me. I’m a aggravation to her. She’s bitter at George and I’m part of that. Fair enough. But I can tell she’s lonely, too. Been lonely for a while, if I’m guessing right. No man with her, not even at her brother’s funeral. That’ll put you in a bad way. Not that she couldn’t have a man if she wanted. Maybe she don’t want it. Maybe she had enough of men. Bad husband, maybe. Bad father. Don’t know much about the brother, but I’m guessing there was something there, too.
It ain’t too late, though. Maybe she’ll soften on George. Maybe soften on life a little. I can tell she was a looker in her day. Still got enough to attract a man. The right kind of man. I been without for a long time now and I know that cloud of lonely. But that woman’s not for me. She scares me. I need a woman that can give me some gentleness. A woman that I can sit with on a porch swing and listen to the crickets. A woman that can take hold of today, live in the moment and not be ate up with the past or fretting about the future.
That Heather, I’ll pray for her. Pray that she finds some relief from her demons. Maybe she can forgive old George. Maybe she can find her smile again.
from the novel Heather Girl
Darnell, also known as Booger, has just met Heather
copyright 2020, joseph e bird
my latest obsession. where da beat go?
speaking of twenty one pilots, i love this song and video.
twenty one pilots’ Tyler Joseph playing the old Elvis song on the uke. It’s cool and it’s sweet.