Posted on 03/23/2007 11:44:31 AM PDT by Eleutheria5
In fiction chapters should be ‘not long’, and should give a definite break, but also should make the reader want to read on. Chapters should also contain a logical sequence of events that fit together. Like a sentence that is too long is annoying and loses meaning, so can a chapter be too long. All that is a tall order, but its just craftsmanship. My chapters are usually 4,000 – 6,000 words. I believe readers like a predictable pace.
An ultra-long chapter is ok sometimes; breaking the rules every now and then can work. An ultra-short chapter is fun, but too many of them makes a piece seem choppy. Michael Moorcock wrote a novel based on ultra-short chapters and I hated it.
BTW, how do you post to the entire ping list?
Go to JamesP81’s home page. He has the list there. Copy it (Control+C just in case you didn’t know that shortcut) and then post it in to the to section and go to the town.
I am doing much better lately by purchasing only those books by authors recommended or otherwise cited by noted top writers in philosophy and brain science. Thus, when the package arrives from Amazon in a couple weeks I am never disappointed and know I will be reading the whole book cover to cover, sentence by sentence. When a top writer admires the writing skill of another author, I have to see for myself and don’t usually bother with anything written after WW I, or if brain science anything written before 1996. But, don’t expect too much—what one author gleaned from another might be just the one-line quote you saw.
I would link it to you but I don't know how.
Brain science? Why that particular interest?
I am not disagreeing with you. But, when I see my first chapter, it takes about 6 pages (manuscript font) before the "event that changes history" takes place.
Then again... in the first line, I introduce the 18th North Carolina and my targeted audience pretty much knows who will be riding down the path at any moment...so maybe that is enough to hold their attention until Jackson arrives.
Talk amongst yourselves while I am gone. :>)
I hope to have to read 100 posts before I return.
Good night. (I am in Israel so I am 7 hours ahead of you all on the east coast)
It is amusing to read the Artificial Intelligence crowd in this light, and also to see which of them are actual writers or philosophers or scientists who 'get it.'
But, my recent practice of reading those that these have referenced has led me to read the very ones I had been avoiding all along--Homer, Plato, Plotinus, even poets from Shakespeare to Blake.
Anyway, that is one question I have had for a long time and still have. There are a few other questions I am still working on along with this one but of even less general interest. If it were the other AI it would be of some interest on FR.
I am writing an alternative historical novel. I am about to change what happened on the Old Bullock Farm Road.
That sounds great! I love what if's. Anything's possible.
His full name is Theodore Nigel Scones. I named him that so he could go by "T. N. Scones." Of course, the biggest benefit to the name is that I got to write the immortal line, "We meet again, Doctor Scones!"
Consequently, while you're in Israel writing about North Carolina history, I'm in North Carolina writing about Israel's history.
Scones: Of course, I did not miss the chance to get a drink from Abraham's Well.
Teacher: Abraham's Well?
Scones: Actually, he's feeling a bit under the weather!
The conflict, crisis, and resolution should all relate to some relatively small dramatic tension that advances your story. Of course, this can be difficult to do in non-fiction, but it's not impossible. It's a function of storytelling rather than plot.
And THAT’S THE WAY IT IS ping!
“If I can help in any way, let me know.”
Well, for now just dig one of my poems on the subject:
Motto from Odyssey Bk. 1, Ll. 48-59 not produced here due to lack of Greek fonts.
ALIYAH
Give me wings to fly away.
Make me light as air.
I’ll ride any eastward wind
That will blow me there,
Where I’ve pointed every prayer;
At my heart, Jerusalem.
Feed me fish from inland seas,
Fruit from valleys that are home
To my wandering, exiled soul.
Land of Israel, make me whole.
“I languish in the utmost West.
My heart, though, dwells in Eastern lands,”
The poet wrote in Moorish Spain,
And came to bow and kiss the dirt,
Where he was murdered, home at last.
I climb the subway stairs and shout
To rain-swept New York City streets
O, give me wings to fly away!
O, make me light as rootless air!
I languish on this sea-girt isle.
My heart, though, dwells in my own land.
They came from far in leaky boats
That wind and canvas slowly led.
A dyer and a dyer’s son
Were all who met them, rest long gone.
Rebuild, restore, revive and plant
600 years of fruitful trees.
My roof is letting in the wet
And I owe last month’s mortgage yet.
I have no wings.
I’m anchored down.
O, make me light as ocean winds.
My feet are here. My heart is there,
Where weary spirits spring up new,
Rebuilt, restored, revived and strong
From ancient soil that’s ever-young.
Black smoke rose from the death-scorched land
Where skeletons were forced to march
In lines that led to murder rooms,
Where strangers seized a last embrace,
Were brothers in the chimney tops.
The few remaining traveled home,
Where none of them had ever been.
Our wife, the Land, was put-upon
By suitors keen to take our place,
Her brave sons silenced by brute strength.
The faithful land outlasts them all,
And now I hear her siren call.
O, give me wings to fly away.
O, make me light as light of day.
My hands and feet are tied too fast
To win free of this wooden mast.
It anchors me, but I still hear,
While others work with wax-filled ears.
To them the day precedes just night,
Which brings another day as bright
As that before, and then one more.
O, give me wings to fly away.
O, make me free as boundless waves.
My youthful hopes still fill my sight
Like dancing, flashing Northern Lights.
But they lie East, behind the dawn
In land I must set foot upon
To truly see and feel and know.
And where my heart is, there I’ll go.
This one for Arzei Levanon, my niece’s neighbor, butchered like an animal by two low-lifes about a month ago while praying in the mountains.
TO RAIZEL IN BAT AYIN
The sun that shines on Galilee
Has dyed your brown hair copper-orange
In wiry veins of mirrored light.
Your countenance is hard and sharp
As Uzi slung across your back.
Young tree, defend your roots, your sap,
Your branches, leaves, the fruits you bear
Beneath the sun of Galilee.
The earth beneath the Western Wall
Has anchored you eternally
In stones they only hold to throw.
Your gait is certain, straight, and clear
As Jordan River’s rapid flow
Between Binyomin’s land and Gad’s.
Proud hawk, fly high and build your nest
Among the jagged crags of hills
Surrounding our Jerusalem
Beneath the sun of Galilee
Among the stony hills.
The sky above Bat Ayin’s loft
Is bluer than your children’s eyes.
And underneath that canopy
They look below beyond the lies
Of vultures hunting rancid meat.
Young cubs avoid the poachers’ snares
Among the cactus thorns and brush
That are your home and refuge place
Among the ancient burial caves
And painted cliffs that suckled you
Beneath the sun of Galilee
Among the stony hills, the farms
That sprouted from dry sand.
The ocean’s waves beat on the beach,
Like giant rhythmic drumming hands
The song is old and young at once
Is bitter gall and honey sweet.
It’s mixed from drops of blood and tears,
The tune from cries of pain and joy
From exiles of two thousand years.
Come home. Come home and free your land
At last from its captivity
Beneath the sun of Galilee
Home to the fire-built house of God.
I am sorry about Azrei Levanon. It is good poem and I like how you link it to the yearning of 2,000 years
PS - have you ever seen the Jordan River? It really doesn't flow rapidly anywhere. In America, we would call it a creek.
Is that from Sherlock Holmes?
I read what you freepmailed me. Nutworth is very funny. Banana!
You are very punny and people who can pun and are clever in the language, I really respect that talent. That is why I like Sondheim lyrics. He does a lot with that type of word play.
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