Claire LaZebnik

My friend Claudia has a devout and loving following on Facebook (and in real life too, where she’s clearly adored by pretty much everyone who meets her–but real life is so 1990′s, don’t you think?).  Almost every day she posts an incredibly funny anecdote about her life, and people rush to comment in response, and usually at least one of them will write something like, “It’s amazing how funny things happen to you all the time. Nothing interesting ever happens to me.”

Now, I happen to know (from a many-decades-long friendship) that Claudia’s life, while filled with love and laughter and activities, is hardly a Life Lived on the Edge.  Like many of us, she trots a fairly well circumscribed path, from home to school to supermarket to various athletic events to social engagements.  She is, admittedly, a warm and outgoing person who likes to chat people up, so, yes, she may engage in more interactions in the course of her day than some of us, but still, there’s nothing unusual about the way she lives her life or the path she treads.

The humor, dear Brutus, lies not in the event but in the telling of it.

In other words, it’s not what’s happening in her life that’s so special–it’s how she takes the mundane and turns it into entertainment.

What makes some people better storytellers than others?

Well, for one thing, they recognize a good anecdote when they see one.  Things happen to all of us during the course of a day.  Some of them are worth retelling.  Some aren’t.  A good storyteller knows the difference.  A bad storyteller can’t discriminate and is as likely to tell you about the left turn he couldn’t make as he is about having been mistaken for Harrison Ford.

Secondly, good story tellers know how to make a good story great.  They leave in the details that add spice and humor and reject any that weigh it down. Recently I was at a gathering where someone told a story that should have been absolutely riveting, but, sadly, he just wasn’t a masterful story teller, and his wild adventure became a slow series of “and then I . . .”s.  My husband and I shook our heads over all that wasted good material.

Finally, good storytellers know how to exaggerate for comic and dramatic effect.  If your story is about wasted money, it may be more exciting to make it a hundred dollars on the line, not ten, and if it’s about people staring at you, it’s funnier if it’s an entire roomful of strangers, not just a couple.  This, by the way, is why it’s difficult to tell really great stories when your kids (and sometimes your spouse) are around: they have a way of correcting your exaggerations that can just kill your anecdote. “We weren’t waiting for half an hour, Mom.  More like three minutes.”  A really good story teller knows to leave the kids at home . . .

This all connects back to writing of course.  It’s easy to say, “I have nothing to write about,” or “Where do other people get their ideas?” or “My life is too boring to provide me with material.”  But that’s the literary equivalent of saying, “Funny things happen to Claudia, not to me.”  Recognize a good story, make it better with the right details, reject the boring, exaggerate and embellish, and find a world of adventure in every day life.

I keep thinking of the Petula Clark song “Downtown.”  Which I love.  What I love less is driving, as anyone who knows me is well aware, but I’m determined to drive, yes, DOWNTOWN at rush hour on March 22nd to read with a bunch of really cool YA authors for a special teen night at LA’s central public library.  Please please come join us!  Here’s the info:

Also, Steph the Bookworm wrote this amazing post about my books that literally brought tears to my eyes.  I get discouraged and frustrated sometimes, but now when I do, I’ll have her post to read and it will help.  It will really help.  If you’re interested, here it is.  Thank you so much, Stephanie.  It meant the world to me.

I’ve got to stop telling people I don’t leave the house. Apparently it’s the first thing people learn about me when they Google my name.  That whole-exaggerating-for-comic-effect-in-interviews thing can really bite you in the ass. 

Not that it’s completely UNtrue.  I mean, on the scale from homebody to world traveler, I definitely fall closer to the homebody side of things, and I think anyone who would go out on a weeknight for anything other than a mandatory school meeting is nuts.  But I do leave the house.  I like going to lunch with friends and I love tooling around with my kids and husband on the weekends.  In fact, I’ve been known not only to leave the house but to leave the country (although admittedly I’ll only do that in the company of all five of my fellow family members, so you could argue I’m taking home WITH me).

Anyway, the point is: accounts of my pathological self-isolation are exaggerated, and I can prove it: I will be appearing in two southern California events over the next few months.

On March 22nd, I’ll be reading from Epic Fail at the Los Angeles Central Public Library, along with several other amazing YA authors.  For more info and a calendar of other library events for teens, click here.  This is one in a series of YA book nights, so check them all out: the first one was last week and people had a great time.

Then on May 12th, I’m wildly excited and honored to be included in a list of female authors–a list which includes Laurie R. King, Delia Ephron, Joyce Maynard among others–at the Literary Guild of Orange County’s 19th Annual Festival of Women Authors.  Talk about good reasons for stripping off my Snugli and venturing out in the world!

Maybe I’m changing.  Maybe I’m growing up and realizing the world outside my front door has a lot to offer.  Maybe I’ll get in the habit of choosing experience over habit, excitement over comfort, a brave new world over the same small space. Seriously.  Someone just asked me to speak at an autism conference in ANOTHER STATE next year, and I may actually do that.

Yep, it’s a whole new me.

Oh, by the way, anyone reading this going to that 8th grade school meeting on Tuesday?  If so, would you mind picking up a couple of extra forms for me?  It’s, you know, a school night, and I’m just not sure I’m going to make it . . .

Check out this guest post I did–also in honor of Valentine’s Day–about why I love romantic books (both to read and to write) and you can also enter to win a copy of EPIC FAIL!

I’ve never done this before–written an additional chapter for a published book–but Lisa at ReadMeBookmarkMeLoveMe asked me if I’d contribute something to her blog for a monthlong Valentine’s Day celebration, and so many people were asking for more Derek and Elise that I thought, Why not reunite them for Valentine’s Day?  And here it is!  Enjoy it and please share with anyone you know who liked EPIC FAIL!

I’m frantically rewriting toward a deadline, so no more at the moment but I’ll be back soon!

Okay, so you’ve finished a draft of something.  At least, you hope it’s something.  But so far it’s just been you and the words, and right about now you would love some outside confirmation that you have a real book here.  You’re not ready to ship it off to an agent or editor yet, but you would like a fresh pair of eyes to look at it.

So who do you ask to read it?

Let me start with who not to ask: anyone whose opinion you don’t value.

Because what’s the point?  I mean, seriously–what’s the point?  

Believe me, it happens: you think, “Oh, so-and-so should read my book,” because so-and-so is a close relative or a good friend or the person sharing your bed or something, and then so-and-so reads it and hands it back saying, “This is great,” or “I have some notes,” and your immediate internal reaction to the former is, “Yeah, but what do you know?” or, to the latter, “Why would I take notes from you? You don’t know anything about writing.”

See what I mean?  Pointless.  Don’t waste their time or yours.

Here’s who you should give it to: someone you’re comfortable being naked in front of.  Not literally.  Well, maybe literally (my husband’s my favorite reader), but mostly I mean it figuratively: it’s pretty agonizing showing someone something you’ve written that may or may not be good.  Seek out the same qualities in your reader that you’d look for in a sex partner–look for someone who’ll be kind, supportive, and very much on your side.  (Good-looking is a nice bonus in both cases, too.)

Being “on your side” doesn’t mean “will always tell you it’s good,” by the way.  Someone who’s on you side will be honest with you–IF THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT.

See how I capitalized and italicized that last phrase?  That’s because it’s very important.  Sometimes you want the truth.  And sometimes you just want praise.  You need to know going into this stage of things which you want and then be clear about it.

When someone asks me to read his manuscript, the first question I ask is, “What would you like from me? Do you want notes?  Are you actually planning to rewrite it?”  (Because if he’s not planning to rewrite the manuscript, I’m not going to waste my time notating it.)  ”Do you want me to tell you it’s great?”  (Yes, I’ve asked that question and I really want people to answer it honestly, because sometimes that’s all you DO want from a reader.  Which is fine: I can gush like a proud mama if that’s what you want.)  Also: “Do you want me to pass it on to my agent?” Because if that’s really what you’re going for, and you’re a good enough friend, I don’t even have to bother reading it.

In other words, know what you want from your reader and then TELL your reader what that is.

Better yet, choose your reader wisely: if you want unconditional praise, pick the sweetest, most supportive friend you’ve got.  If you want painstakingly detailed notes, ask someone who’s a smart, knowledgeable reader.  If you’re looking for a referral to an agent or editor, ask someone with connections.  And if what you really want is harsh, unrelenting criticism, then go see a therapist because you’re clearly a masochist.

But above all else, remember these words of wisdom:

Don’t ever show a work in progress to your parents.  People who once changed your diaper are incapable of objectively reviewing anything you do as a grown-up.  They’re incapable of seeing you as a grown-up, come to think of it.  Show it to them when it’s published.  They’ll like it then.

And, hey, congratulations–you finished your novel!  Go have a glass of champagne.  It’s on me.  Figuratively.

Get your reader invested in your protagonist right from the start.

You guys remember the comic strip Goofus and Gallant from Highlights Magazine?

For those who never had to go to the dentist (which is where most kids discover Highlights), Goofus and Gallant were two young men who had been named by their parents with frighteningly accurate prescience.  Gallant was a model of good behavior; Goofus showed you how not to behave.  Gallant held doors for people; Goofus let them swing shut in people’s faces.  Gallant helped his mother set the table.  Goofus mumbled an excuse and ran away.  Gallant carried groceries.  Goofus threw balls at people carrying groceries.   Here’s a prime example of a brilliant plotted Goofus and Gallant strip: 

I think it’s safe to say that Gallant would succinctly and helpfully stick to the point in a blog post, while Goofus would go off on an irrelevant tangent.

Which brings me to my point: I am Goofus.  Goofus is me. I frequently find myself inadvertently illustrating what NOT to do.  So here’s my writing tip: Don’t be a Goofus like me and make the following mistake:

In the very first pages of my novel If You Lived Here, You’d Be Home Now, the protagonist, Rickie, is about to take the family dog out for a walk.  Just as she’s clipping on the leash, she gets a phone call from a guy she hasn’t seen in ages, saying he’s in town and would love to see her right away.  She unclips the leash, telling the dog the walk is canceled, and the disappointed pup follows her sadly to the door.

Rickie’s mother ends up taking the dog on a walk, so–please note–the dog IS FINE.  She would have been fine even if she hadn’t gotten a walk.  I mean, my dogs frequently don’t get taken on long walks, and they’re fine.  A little neurotic, admittedly, but that has nothing to do with the number of walks they get.

After the book was published, I was shocked to discover that some readers disliked Rickie.  I mean, sure, she was sharp-tongued and a little self-centered, but she proves over the course of the novel that she’s devoted to her son and loves her family. She was good folk, deep down–at least as far as I was concerned.  Why wasn’t that coming through?  Then I realized that a lot of the reviewers were saying they disliked her at FIRST but later came to care about her, and that’s when I realized it:

They hated her because the first thing she did in the entire novel was disappoint a sweet dog.

It was such a throw-away moment for me (and wasn’t the original beginning to the book–originally she started off picking up her kid at school which would have made her much more sympathetic) and it set more of a tone for the book than I realized (as first pages are likely to do). If she’d rescued a dog from being caught by its leash in a bush or something, readers would have instantly liked her. But instead she said no to the dog and it took readers a while to get past that.

The goal is to get your readers to like, respect, and feel invested in your main character.  That doesn’t mean that he/she has to be the most noble, perfect, and beautiful human to ever walk the planet–flawed heroes are the most interesting. But it does mean that our first view of them matters.  Would we love Katniss as much if she didn’t instantly sacrifice herself for her sister’s sake?  Or Harry Potter if his first act were to tease Dudley for being fat?

So find a nice little moment at the beginning of your novel to create a reason why it should matter to the reader whether your protagonist succeeds or not.

And, most importantly, don’t ever let him or her disappoint a dog. A cat, MAYBE.  But never a dog.