Write Your Synopsis - And Stay Sane!

How hard can it be to summarize your novel in about 700 well-chosen words? Sounds simple, eh? But as anyone who's tried it knows, those 700 words can cause terrible grief, precipitate nervous breakdowns, hair loss, and murderous mood swings—and in some cases, take longer to write than the whole 100,000-word novel did!

If there is one thing the diverse writing world agrees on, it's that being captured by headhunters is preferable to writing a synopsis. Stephen King said the best thing about success was that he'd never have to write a synopsis again.

...since most of us are a ways from being the next Stephen King, what are some ways to dull the agony and turn out something that makes agents claw each others eyes out to get their hands on the book?

A method I recently discovered is the chapter summary: take each chapter of the novel and summarize it in one or two sentences. You'll end up with about 25-40 sentences, which may not make any sense, but it'll give you an idea of the novel's skeleton. The next step is to flesh out the skeleton. This method works well for plot-heavy novels, because it forces you to get down to the core ideas of your book.

Example: (from my novel SS-5)

(chapter 1) Birthday plans. Father leaves for the army. (chapter 2) Nazis invade. Holland surrenders. Father goes missing.

...and the final version...

It's May, 1940 and war rumbles across the European countryside, yet Jan Jonkheer believes it couldn't possibly touch the safety of neutral Holland. Jan's father, who has faced the truth and knows Hitler is coming, breaks his promise to stay with his family and joins Holland's army on the eve of his son's fourteenth birthday.

Jan, betrayed and angry, wakes on his birthday morning to the crash of bombs and the drums of war. Hitler's armies have invaded Holland. Within twenty-four hours, the tiny Dutch army is conquered and Jan knows he has lost his father forever.

Another method is to use the character outline. Select the three or four characters who drive the novel, and write a paragraph for each describing who they are at the beginning, what happens to make them change, and who they become at the end. Then take a couple of paragraphs to summarize how the characters interact, the conflict and the resolution, and you're done. The character outline works particularly well for literary novels and character-driven novels where the characters are central. Randy Ingersoll, creator of the Snowflake method of novelwriting, says agents/editors love character outlines.

Example: (from my novel Through A Rain Of Fire)

Flight Lieutenant Peter Standish is the best pilot in his squadron. He's engaged to a beautiful girl, and they've planned a wonderful future. Peter thinks he is unstoppable: until the day he goes down in flames. His body burned beyond recognition, his world in ashes, Peter Standish fights to find a reason to live.

Growing up in a sheltered, loving family, Julie Knight never knew how bad life could get. Abandoned for dead after a tragic train wreck, the seventeen-year-old hides in the shadows as her city is bombed to ruins. Locked behind the prison walls of a London orphanage, alone without friends or family, she struggles for hope of survival.

One more helpful tip is not to worry about word count. (Do that while writing the synopsis and your risk of insanity triples.) Use the chapter outline or the character sketch—or something else entirely—and just write. At the end, if you're short words, you can fill with description or added information. If you're too long, set it aside for a couple of days and then cut. It's amazing how many unnecessary words we use! (Look at this blog, for example...)

A final comforting thought is that, sooner or later, you won't have to write synopses anymore. You'll either be a bestselling author – or you'll have gone insane. :)

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Are you a super-synopsis-writer? What are some tricks you use? Have you ever tried the chapter outline or the character sketch?

It “Was” Horrible – and ways to make it better!

It's a nasty word. It drives editors to distraction, causes agents to go into anaphylactic shock, and writing mentors to slosh red ink around like blood. From the moment we start to write, we hear “NEVER USE WAS!”

However, they rarely say why. And even rarer do they give advice on how to fix it! But the solution to “was-less” prose is actually quite simple. In this post, I'll give some pointers showing how to replace it!

First, though: Why is “was” wrong? Well, because it's passive. It's the quickie way of saying something, and it makes the writing sound lazy. “She was angry” is much less exciting than “Her teeth gritted and her fists bulged in her pockets.”

Despite the taboos, “was” is still a perfectly good word, and in some cases, it belongs. But chances are you use it too much, just like 99.9% of all writers. The good news is that it's surprisingly easy to get rid of!

Here are a few common “was” phrases I've seen. Below each, I've rewritten the sentence to get rid of “was.”

The floor was cold under his bare feet.
His bare toes curled against the cold floor.

She was too tired to keep her eyes open.
Exhaustion dizzied her and her eyes drooped shut.

The sun was warm on his face.
Rays of sunshine beat down, hot on his face.

The food was spicy.
Heat tingled through his mouth as he ate the food.

Notice how much more powerful and interesting the rewrites are than the original sentence? Grammatically, there's nothing at all wrong with the originals, but by replacing “was” with active verbs, the impact of the writing takes a giant leap for the better. It's a subtle trick, but it guarantees a better piece of writing—and it guarantees editors and agents won't react to your work like it was poison ivy!

It's actually simple to find replacements for “was,” especially on an edit. (I often let the word fall where it may when I'm churning out a scene, and go back and replace them later.) Try it yourself – go through your own writing and find seven or eight “was” sentences, and rewrite them using active verbs and sentence structure. Do it on a regular basis, and pretty soon it'll become second nature!

One warning – don't try to replace “was” in dialogue. Like it or not, we murder grammar when we talk, and if you try to make all dialogue perfect writing, it'll sound stilted.

And don't forget, there are some places that definitely merit a “was.” If you think you've got a place where the word works, go with it! Just like any other rule, this one can be broken successfully.
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What are some of the strategies YOU employ to avoid using “was”?

Awards - Oh My!

This lovely award was given to me by Elisabeth (elisabethscorner.blogspot.com) and I am (belately) accepting it with much thanks!!!

Now, this award apparently comes with a few rules. They are:

1. Tell you seven things you don't know about me

2. Name seven other blogs to receive this award

3. Leave a comment on the other blogs I have nominated letting them know that I have given them an award.

4. Thank the blog that gave you the award!

Seven things who doesn't know about me? ;) Seven things NO ONE knows about me is about seven things more than I want to share with the general world at large. But let's see what odd facts I can dig up.

1. I love Dorothy Sayers, and Lord Peter would be my favorite detective of all time - except Father Brown squeezed in for first.

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2. My favorite food is spaghetti and I have been known to eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner!

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3. If I could have a magical talent I would want to be able to breathe underwater.

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4. If I changed my name I'd be "Katherine".

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5. I believe reading P.G. Wodehouse should be mandatory - to maintain a healthy level of insanity.

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6. If I weren't a writer I'd be a trauma surgeon or a third-word paramedic.

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7. All of the above information has been falsified, especially this paragraph. ;)

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And now to spread this madness across the web.... I am presenting this award to:

Ruth

Becky

Mitzi

Kayla

Aisely

Nona

Blanche Rose

A Fire Is Woken - Officially DONE!

Flight Lieutenant Peter Standish thinks he is unstoppable: until the day he goes down in flames. His body burned beyond recognition, his world in ashes, Peter Standish is alone; except for Julie Knight, a young woman shadowed by her own dark past. Together, they might find courage to face their futures, but suspicion and mistrust worm between them at every turn. When Julie sails into danger overseas as an SOE agent and Peter flies into the deadliest battles of his life at D-Day, their very survival depends on their ability to trust God and each other. Will they get a second chance at happiness?

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That's the premise for our novel, A Fire Is Woken, which we've finally finished! Not by the deadline, sadly, because I came down with a nasty flu which turned into pneumonia, which is shockingly effective at keeping one from writing. However, Ruth did a fantastic job on her end, and the first day I could drag myself to the computer I wrapped up the few scenes I had left, and now IT IS DONE.

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Whew!

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It's been a little under a year and a half since we started writing A Fire Is Woken, and two years since its conception. Seems like forever and seems like yesterday. We've so much invested in these characters; they've been part of our lives for so long that suddenly things are a bit bleak without them. We'll revisit Peter and Julie briefly in bk 3, and again in the Korea novel, but truth be known, their story is told.

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And we're not quite sure whether to host a party or have a good cry! :) But in celebration, today's blog post will be two exciting excerpts from the novel itself! Enjoy them!

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May had come with a bright burst, Peter thought, as he walked from the dispersal hut to the main offices. Grass crushed beneath his flight boots and scattered wildflowers waved in a breeze.

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Peter let the door slam behind him as he stepped inside, and knocked at the Group Captain's office.

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“You wanted to talk to me, sir?”

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Reeves glanced up. “Yes, sit down.”

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Peter sat on the edge of the chair, leaning forward, elbows on knees. He waited while Reeves wrote, the only noise other than the coarse scratch of the Group Captain's pen the buzz of a bee on the windowpane.

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Moments stretched long, and then Reeves set his pen down and pushed his chair back, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “You're heard of the invasion, I suppose.”

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Peter looked at him keenly. “There's been talk of a European invasion for years, sir. Practically since the Blitz ended.”

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Reeves nodded, standing up and walking to the window. Cigarette smoke drifted out the crack, a blue ghost on the spring breeze.

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“It's real.”

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Peter raised an eyebrow. “More than rumor, then.”

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Reeves turned, his face serious. “There's not much I can say, and I've probably already said more than I should. But it's drawing near. The RAF will be expected to play a part, of course.

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“I need many things, Standish, and most of them the RAF is giving me. New planes; new pilots...” He ground his cigarette out in the ash tray and sat down, fingers steepled. “There's one thing I need more than anything else, though. I need good leadership.”

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“Sir?”

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“The RAF wants me to send a whole wing. Most of them will be new pilots. I need someone who knows their stuff to lead them.” His blue-grey eyes sliced into Peter. “I want you to lead them. Through fire, through danger, to victory. I know you can do it. You're one of the old school. You've seen combat—perhaps more than any man should.”

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He sighed and leaned back. “I'm offering you a promotion here, Standish, but it's under very strict terms. I need you to understand them.”

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“I can't say as I understand at all, sir.” Peter shoved his feet against the floor.

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“I'm going to ask you to go into combat, combat like you haven't seen since the Battle of Britain. And I'm asking you to go in with young men who know little to nothing of what they're doing. There's good Squadron Leaders; but the boys themselves...”

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“They'll be green.” Peter understood.

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Reeves nodded. “I'm asking you to do perhaps the most dangerous thing you've ever done. You don't have to accept it, of course.”

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Peter sat back for the first time since he'd entered the office. Images flashed, faster than he could stop them. The old days when they were all invincible. The ones who never came home.

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Broken formations.

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Headstones, but no casket.

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And more recent events. Writing the reports of the ones lost in the North Sea. MIAs over Germany. And the accident at the aerodrome—a kid, barely eighteen, dead.

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Peter's breath thickened in his throat, and he stood up, walking to the window like Reeves had just minutes ago. His Spit sat perched in front of the hanger, and a lone mechanic crouched on the wing, wrench in hand, tuning up the delicate machine.

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She's ready to fly.

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Excitement boiled deep down in him.

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And so am I.

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His fingers ran along the wood of the windowsill, his mind racing away from the confines of the office, to a sky so blue that it made artists paints pale in comparison. Clouds; great piles of white hanging effortlessly above the cities and farms. The roar of the Spit's engine and the rattle of the machine guns. Black and white. Good and evil. Spits and Snappers. Fire and glory.

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Conquering. Riding a red wave of victory across vast expanses of the sky.

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To what?

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Peace.

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His hands clenched tight, muscles straining them into rocky fists.

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For Will. For Mum.

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For Dad.

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He turned from the window. Reeves was sitting at the desk, writing again. The silence snapped, and the scritch of Reeves's pen and the chirp of song birds filled Peter's ears.

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“I'll go.”

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Reeves looked up sharply, and the weight of responsibility crashed down onto Peter's shoulders.

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“You're sure?”

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How sure am I? Peter didn't know. Sure enough that I'm not going to back out. I've got to do this.

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How many times had he said he was going to go back? How many times had he boasted of settling Hitler himself?

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And I have.

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He'd flown against the might of Germany in the depths of night with no noise other than the roar of bombers, Spits, and bursting flak in his ears as he peered into the darkness, nerves stretched tight and and all his senses strained for any sign of danger. And he'd defied the German war machine as he flew high above the convoys in the North Sea with grey fog swirling and the sea rough beneath him.

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But this was different.

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This is it.

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This was why he'd come back.

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“I'm sure.” Peter locked eyes with Reeves. “I'm very sure.”

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Julie turned in a slow circle, taking in the low, long hulks of hangars, the smaller, more habitable structure she guessed was a mess hall. Beyond the buildings, the sun bounced off the length of concrete, a grey slash stretching for what looked like miles in the green field.

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Along the concrete and in the grass planes perched, their airscrews still, their noses pointed up at the empty sky.

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“The planes,” she said. “Can you show me the planes?”

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“How many do you want to see?” The tension slid from his face as he took her hand and they crossed the field. Grass stuck in the toes of her shoes, but she ignored it as they came up under the shadow of the nearest plane.

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“It's...huge.” She squinted up at the wings, enormous over her head.

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Peter chuckled. “This is a Spitfire, honey. Smallest fighter in the service. If you want big, you should see some of the bombers. They're over there, behind the hangars.”

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“This is big enough, thank you.” Julie put out a tentative hand. “Can I touch it?”

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“This is my bird. You can do anything you want.”

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She held her breath, oddly nervous as she reached out. The body of the plane was surprisingly warm, and it gave beneath her touch. A shiver went through the entire plane and she stepped back hastily. “It feels alive!”

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The twinkle in Peter's eye was backed by something deeper. “We like to think they are.”

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Confidence grew and she ran her hand along the wing, stood on tiptoe to run a finger down the sharp edge of the airscrew. .

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“How do you get in?”

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“Like this.” Peter put a hand on the wing and vaulted up. Laughing, he hung down and reached for her hand. “Come on.”

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She hesitated a minute, judging the distance. “What about my shoes?”

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Peter glanced down at her heels, then at the canvas cover of the plane. “Ah, they won't hurt it.”

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She rolled her eyes. “No, I meant they'll slip. But never mind—I'll just take them off.” Kicking the shoes aside, she grabbed Peter's wrists and wriggled clumsily up next to him.

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He put an arm around her to steady her, and grinned into her eyes. “Not so bad?”

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She rose cautiously to her feet, gripping with her bare toes. Beneath her, the plane shuddered like a bird about to fly. A wind swept through the grass and over the nose, catching her hair and blowing it behind her. The sense of freedom took her breath away.

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Peter's hand tightened around hers, and she knew he felt the same thing. For the first time, a thread of understanding ran between them.

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“I can see what you like about planes,” she said quietly.

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“Oh, this is only the beginning.” He turned suddenly and held her gaze for an intense moment. “Wait...wait...I've got an idea. How'd you like to take a flight?”

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Her mouth opened. “How?”

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“That trainer.” Excitement ran across his face. “Only one person can fit in a Spit or a Hurri, but the trainers—they're set up for two people. Usually a student pilot, but the front man can fly the plane. I've got to fly one over to another airfield today. There's not a thing says you can't come along.”

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For one moment, she hesitated. Against her will, the nightmares rose in front of her vision. She fought them back. Peter's gaze rested on her, and his yearning tugged at her heart.

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He wanted to share with her. This was his world, and he wanted to share.

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“All right,” she said, “but Peter, I don't know anything about this.”

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A grin split his face. “You don't need to. Come on, I'll get you a coverall and we'll leave.”

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Julie thought her heart was going to crawl right out her mouth. Rough canvas coveralls scraped her bare legs; her bunched-up skirt offering no protection. Straps across her chest and back bit into her flesh. Peter had shown her only two things when he'd settled her in the hard bucket seat; the ripcord on her parachute and the eject lever under her seat.

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His eyes had twinkled. “If it were Monty flying this bird, you'd need 'em. But don't worry, I'm not so fond of nose dives into farm fields.”

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She could only see the back of Peter's head now, as he adjusted a dial on the console in front of him, then made a few quick hand gestures to the ground crew standing outside the plane. They'd looked oddly at her, but apparently Peter's rank did hold weight, for they'd said nothing.

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Peter twisted to look back at her. “I'm going to start her up. Hold your ears if you want—but it won't be so loud once we're up.” He held her gaze for a minute. “Ready?”

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Her mouth was too dry to talk. She nodded.

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He gave her a thumbs' up and turned back, waving. In front of the windscreen, the airscrew swirled to life.

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A moment later the engines exploded into action; Julie gasped and shoved herself against the seat as a deafening roar filled the cockpit and vibrated every inch of the plane. She clenched her hands in her lap as Peter put a hand on the stick between his legs, and the plane started to move. From her seat, she couldn't see the ground, just the sky and the edge of the treeline, which blurred as the plane gathered speed. The roar filled her ears, pressed her chest till she couldn't get a breath.

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And then it was gone. Air slipped between her surprised lips as the roar died away, the sensation of vibration, everything.

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They were...flying.

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Peter twisted around. “We're up.”

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“I know!” She squirmed against the straps, pressed a face against the glass of the canopy. With startling speed the ground fell away beneath them, the huge hangars and buildings of the airfield becoming smaller than the miniatures in Johnny's toy. “The world looks...so strange from above!”

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“Good strange?”

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“Yes! It's...incredible!”

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She caught the tail end of his smile as he turned back from flying. “Hold tight. I'll make a turn, you can see better when the plane's tilted.”

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She suppressed a gasp when, easy as thought, the plane turned on its side. World and sky spun, the rules of horizon and distance mixing. The plane made a lazy loop, then swung to the other side and looped again.

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Julie started smiling and couldn't stop. This is why Peter went back. This is what he lives for.

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Oh Peter, I understand.

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Before closing, I want to give a shout-out of thanks to everyone who helped us finish this novel! Storytellers, as always you guys are THE BEST. For encouragement, feedback, and support—a million thanks.

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And hey, Miss Ruth Rockafield, thank you for writing this novel with me! It's been the best of times.