More and more, I’m noticing that a lot of chick-lit authors come from legal and corporate backgrounds. Makes me wonder, how the hell do these ladies, who’ve schooled themselves in writing the driest of the dry, switch to the “anything goes” style that is the trademark of chick-lit?
Speaking for myself, after umpteen college papers (including graduate level) plus a lifetime of business documents, it’s not easy to, shall we say, de-formalize my style.
Add to that three years of studying what’s “required” of traditional romance, and my brain is starting to schiz-ify. (See…the “old” me would have written “I’m starting to feel schizophrenic.)
To demonstrate even more clearly, here’s my first pass at the opening paragraph of the synopsis I’m working on for my new WIP.
Rose Thornton is fed up with getting the fuzzy end of the Popsicle stick.
Starting with the day of her ninth birthday, which should have consisted of pony rides, presents, and cake with butter cream frosting, and instead is spent moving into a strange house, with strange new siblings, and a strange woman insisting she be called Mom, Life has not gone according to plan.
I’ve since decided to write this novel as a straight chick-lit. Here’s the new opener:
Now here this. I, Rose Thornton, under penalty of perjury and an eternity of bad hair days, do solemnly swear on the heads of my future children, that I am finished with getting the fuzzy end of the Popsicle stick.
A bit dramatic you say? Well, you try existing like a footnote in the term paper of your family’s life.
Me here again. Do you know how difficult it was to “let go” and write that second version?
Feels good though. And it’s a lot more fun to write than corporate BS.
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2 comments:
I like the second version better. It's more engaging, IMO.
Couldn't resist. Some people can work to make things shorter, but I prefer the long version. So, this is what I did.
My ninth birthday and my present is the fuzzy end of the Popsicle stick.
I've seen ninth birthdays on TV, consisting of pony rides, presents, and cake with butter cream frosting. However, I'm not living in a situation comedy with Daddy, Mommy, Dick, and Jane, but in real life. And real life has not gone according to plan. On my special day, I moved into a strange house, with strange new siblings, and a strange woman insisting she be called Mom.
Ever try calling someone you don't know, Mom? Try it sometime. Pick out a nice lady twenty years older than you in a crowd, walk up to her, and utter the words, "Hi, Mom." Betcha can't do it. But, that's what I had to do. On my birthday, no less, which no one even remembered. My memory won't be of presents or kisses or something delicious, but it will be of crying softly so I don't wake up the stranger in the bed next to me, with nobody knowing or caring.
Now here this. I, Rose Thornton, under penalty of perjury and an eternity of bad hair days, do solemnly swear on the heads of my future children, that I am finished with getting the fuzzy end of the Popsicle stick.
A bit dramatic you say? Well, you try existing like a footnote in the term paper of your family’s life.
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