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By Verl Hatch
I went to a writer’s thingy. It wasn’t a conference. We didn’t confer. It wasn’t a workshop. We didn’t work. It was a writer’s lecturia featuring some good contemporary authors lecturing about how to. I’m eighty years old and don’t remember what I had for lunch that day, but the women were lovely and I learned one thing—either I do it all wrong, or everyone else does. As I understand from the lecturia, in order to write you sit down at the word processor, type, and a story appears, characters grow, plots thicken, and then you need a publisher. Who am I to say that this is not how to?
I start with a pencil, myself. Could be I’m watching a child learning to ride a bicycle. I make a note of what I observe—just to remember. Could be I’m in a deep sleep, dreaming. I awake, write a note—just to remember. My notebook is full of unrelated trivia. Now, I’m at my desk by the window, pencil and pad in hand. The pot starts to heat. I create an outline, no details, but a series of ideas leading to a conclusion. The pot comes to a boil. At that point, I spend a lot of thought on producing a unique finish. I throw a veggie in the pot, add a little spice, constantly stirring and adding to the pot (in other words, perusing my notebook for clues, discovering points of interest, things I’d forgotten). Now I have a soup! In short, by the time I’ve completed that outline, my story is written. Soup is not the whole of dinner, however. It’s just the starter. All I need do now is write the entrées, the side dishes, the dessert.
No, I have not sold a tale in years, nor have I crafted anything I feel is worth money, and I do have that in common with ninety-nine and nine tenths of other contemporary authors, but I sure know how to make a good soup!
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By Verl Hatch
I went to a writer’s thingy. It wasn’t a conference. We didn’t confer. It wasn’t a workshop. We didn’t work. It was a writer’s lecturia featuring some good contemporary authors lecturing about how to. I’m eighty years old and don’t remember what I had for lunch that day, but the women were lovely and I learned one thing—either I do it all wrong, or everyone else does. As I understand from the lecturia, in order to write you sit down at the word processor, type, and a story appears, characters grow, plots thicken, and then you need a publisher. Who am I to say that this is not how to?
I start with a pencil, myself. Could be I’m watching a child learning to ride a bicycle. I make a note of what I observe—just to remember. Could be I’m in a deep sleep, dreaming. I awake, write a note—just to remember. My notebook is full of unrelated trivia. Now, I’m at my desk by the window, pencil and pad in hand. The pot starts to heat. I create an outline, no details, but a series of ideas leading to a conclusion. The pot comes to a boil. At that point, I spend a lot of thought on producing a unique finish. I throw a veggie in the pot, add a little spice, constantly stirring and adding to the pot (in other words, perusing my notebook for clues, discovering points of interest, things I’d forgotten). Now I have a soup! In short, by the time I’ve completed that outline, my story is written. Soup is not the whole of dinner, however. It’s just the starter. All I need do now is write the entrées, the side dishes, the dessert.
No, I have not sold a tale in years, nor have I crafted anything I feel is worth money, and I do have that in common with ninety-nine and nine tenths of other contemporary authors, but I sure know how to make a good soup!
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Copyright © Verl Hatch,May 28, 2015. All rights reserved. No part of this blog may be used or produced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, email the author: [email protected]
About the Author
Verl Hatch turned 80 years old in 2014. He does nothing but write and he loves it. His favorite things (besides writing) are the people in the Writers, Ink. group and country music/hillbilly jams. He writes poetry and fiction. (Does that make him a sentimental liar?) The genre he’s most fond of is science fiction. If you can see that blue stain on his shoulder, that’s Elohim, his main character, an alien who thinks he’s God. (He’s also a very good cartoonist.) All of his poetry is Christmas-themed. He’s very versatile musically and plays the accordion, guitar, steel guitar, banjo and mouth harp. The mouth harp is his favorite instrument. The difference between a mouth harp and a harmonica is in the way it’s played, just as the fiddle differs from the violin only in how it’s used. Verl grew up in the dust and debt of the 1930’s way back in the hills of Custer County, Nebraska. With the help of his wonderful wife, Kathleen, he overcame his poor beginnings to finish high school, after which he managed to squeak past two Bachelor degrees, completed a Masters degree and dang near got a Doctorate. Mind meld with Verl: [email protected]