Michael Cogdill's Blog - Posts Tagged "fiction"
The Affair of Writing
I anchor the late news on WYFF4 television – NBC in the Western Carolinas and Georgia. A newscast – so often fraught with helicopter live pictures and word of the worst of times for often innocent souls – leaves the people who bring it to you wired at the nerves and longing in the heart by a work day’s end. Coming home at midnight with all that energy, I vented the power of it on fiction. She-Rain, over a span of a decade, emerged as the result.
And, thus, came my love affair with such hours as 4:30 am. It grew out of lust for an utterly different world, and a love for the sway of language. Countless mornings I drew myself away from She-Rain and came to bed at the breakage of dawn to my extraordinary wife, Jill, who not only tolerated this tryst. She knew and embraced its beginnings. Thankfully, she still does so, as a muse, an editor, and my great love.
Great television writing calls for sentences of no more than 22 syllables or so. It must spark with active voice, and it dies without action. Powerful storytelling lives in lines that open with a sense of wonder. They should never merely end. They should land with power aimed for the human heart. The trouble is, we in television keep writing about the same things. Over and over, we tell of common trauma resurrecting itself in differing lives. Along with my work as an anchor, I tell long-form stories that have won me a few awards over my career.
When colleagues ask me how to win Emmys writing about the same terrible human events, I always say – spray the events with active, high-caliber words to create that sense of wonder, then get deep down into the humanness of it all. Down where those events find their making. Find the heart, then let the viewer hear it.
This will seem the oxymoron of a media hound’s lifetime, but I believe all writing – even hard-news journalism – ought to aim for some brush with beauty. A few days ago, I read a critic chiding Pat Conroy for his “purpled prose.” I doubt Mr. Conroy troubles himself much at this, given the legion of fans adoring his way of calling deeply human events to life in fine lines of storytelling. And yes, it’s easy to go way too far. Yet when Scott Fitzgerald in a magazine piece described an ocean as the color of blue silk stockings or the irises of children’s eyes, he taught us all how efficiently a line of beauty can find its way into a reader’s heart.
One of the great storytellers in the history of television, Bob Dotson of NBC News, gave me some advice that will serve any writer well – when you think of that beautiful little line that rings with music and clarifies the whole story, write it down. Put it on a scrap of paper, scrawl it on your hand, write it anywhere that’s legal. Never rely on your memory. Seed the future of your story with the scribbling of your present time. Even if you write on your leg while steering a riding lawn mower, get that thought some permanence. Reader, please, if you get ideas that way, let me know. Let’s share in the bizarre comfort of odd places where our writing suddenly arrives.
In just such a peculiar way, She-Rain whispered to me, even on the news set in a commercial break. Many a night, the novel would slip me her number again. I’ve often come home with a scrap off a news script, scribbled full of lines and ideas that would rise to full life at 4:30 the following morning. She-Rain became a solace from the world of news, yet she drew from what that world taught me about the telling of a deeply human story. The terror and beauty common to us all.
So here’s to writing that grows out of that longing for an utterly different world. Here’s our affair with language and the rising of a tale. May those we love understand that we who write simply can not help but stray there. Thankfully they know us, and love us anyway.
HANK: And that's a wrap. (I've scribbled on many a script myself!)
She-Rain will be published in early March, 2010. Read the opening pages here: http://she-rain.blogspot.com/.
And, thus, came my love affair with such hours as 4:30 am. It grew out of lust for an utterly different world, and a love for the sway of language. Countless mornings I drew myself away from She-Rain and came to bed at the breakage of dawn to my extraordinary wife, Jill, who not only tolerated this tryst. She knew and embraced its beginnings. Thankfully, she still does so, as a muse, an editor, and my great love.
Great television writing calls for sentences of no more than 22 syllables or so. It must spark with active voice, and it dies without action. Powerful storytelling lives in lines that open with a sense of wonder. They should never merely end. They should land with power aimed for the human heart. The trouble is, we in television keep writing about the same things. Over and over, we tell of common trauma resurrecting itself in differing lives. Along with my work as an anchor, I tell long-form stories that have won me a few awards over my career.
When colleagues ask me how to win Emmys writing about the same terrible human events, I always say – spray the events with active, high-caliber words to create that sense of wonder, then get deep down into the humanness of it all. Down where those events find their making. Find the heart, then let the viewer hear it.
This will seem the oxymoron of a media hound’s lifetime, but I believe all writing – even hard-news journalism – ought to aim for some brush with beauty. A few days ago, I read a critic chiding Pat Conroy for his “purpled prose.” I doubt Mr. Conroy troubles himself much at this, given the legion of fans adoring his way of calling deeply human events to life in fine lines of storytelling. And yes, it’s easy to go way too far. Yet when Scott Fitzgerald in a magazine piece described an ocean as the color of blue silk stockings or the irises of children’s eyes, he taught us all how efficiently a line of beauty can find its way into a reader’s heart.
One of the great storytellers in the history of television, Bob Dotson of NBC News, gave me some advice that will serve any writer well – when you think of that beautiful little line that rings with music and clarifies the whole story, write it down. Put it on a scrap of paper, scrawl it on your hand, write it anywhere that’s legal. Never rely on your memory. Seed the future of your story with the scribbling of your present time. Even if you write on your leg while steering a riding lawn mower, get that thought some permanence. Reader, please, if you get ideas that way, let me know. Let’s share in the bizarre comfort of odd places where our writing suddenly arrives.
In just such a peculiar way, She-Rain whispered to me, even on the news set in a commercial break. Many a night, the novel would slip me her number again. I’ve often come home with a scrap off a news script, scribbled full of lines and ideas that would rise to full life at 4:30 the following morning. She-Rain became a solace from the world of news, yet she drew from what that world taught me about the telling of a deeply human story. The terror and beauty common to us all.
So here’s to writing that grows out of that longing for an utterly different world. Here’s our affair with language and the rising of a tale. May those we love understand that we who write simply can not help but stray there. Thankfully they know us, and love us anyway.
HANK: And that's a wrap. (I've scribbled on many a script myself!)
She-Rain will be published in early March, 2010. Read the opening pages here: http://she-rain.blogspot.com/.
This Just In ... She-Rain
The first physical copies of She-Rain just arrived. Ten plus years of work distill into those pages. As its creator, I am in awe of my good fortune -- especially to have worked with my wife, Jill, to bring the final book into being.
In The Jerk, Steve Martin's character, Navin Johnson, finds his name published in the phone book as says, "...I'm in print! Things are going to start happening for me now!" Then a wild-eyed maniac sniper started shooting at him off a hill. But Navin more than survived. The naive stooge thrived! May I become so fortunate.
To publish is to ask for the smokin'-hot rounds of critics. I'm braced. Working in television will do that for you. But I'm blessed already with the light of lavish praise on this southern story. Readers have called it beautiful. Poetic. They've said it changed them for the better, and that they're longing for more. To all of you who've embraced pieces of She-Rain even before you could buy it, THANK YOU!! And stay tuned. I'm a writer who believes every reader -- on some level -- becomes family. I want to hear from all of you. How you are. And how you've liked living for a while in the entire world according to -- She-Rain.
National debut coming March 31. Launch parties in the Carolinas before then. As we say in the South, even occasionally on TV, "come on, y'all. Come on in!"
In The Jerk, Steve Martin's character, Navin Johnson, finds his name published in the phone book as says, "...I'm in print! Things are going to start happening for me now!" Then a wild-eyed maniac sniper started shooting at him off a hill. But Navin more than survived. The naive stooge thrived! May I become so fortunate.
To publish is to ask for the smokin'-hot rounds of critics. I'm braced. Working in television will do that for you. But I'm blessed already with the light of lavish praise on this southern story. Readers have called it beautiful. Poetic. They've said it changed them for the better, and that they're longing for more. To all of you who've embraced pieces of She-Rain even before you could buy it, THANK YOU!! And stay tuned. I'm a writer who believes every reader -- on some level -- becomes family. I want to hear from all of you. How you are. And how you've liked living for a while in the entire world according to -- She-Rain.
National debut coming March 31. Launch parties in the Carolinas before then. As we say in the South, even occasionally on TV, "come on, y'all. Come on in!"
More Praise of She-Rain, As I Praise the Beautiful Blonde Who Inspired This Writer
Yet another review just emerged, this one also speaking of She-Rain in terms every writer longs to hear. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. Here's a portion:
Reviewer Comments:
I am really struggling to write this review, because everything I've tried putting down so far, seems so lame. There is no real way I can describe how beautifully written this book is. She-Rain was written with the most beautiful prose and has that rich Southern feel that makes this book amazing and one of the best, if not THE best story I've ever read.
Beautifully written, "She-Rain" captured my soul from the beginning. The story is about an abused boy, Frank Jr., who grew up in a mill town in the 1920's with an alcoholic and drug addicted father and a strong and hard working mother. The emotions are raw and real and cover all from anger, hatred, and rage, to love, hope and forgiveness. The characters are so very real, so real that I swear I've known some of them from my own childhood.
Although I finished this book a few days ago, I still am breathless by this most unforgettable novel. This is a book that I will be keeping in my permanent collection and will be read again and again. I honestly won't be surprised, if in years to come, it becomes a classic. It is truly a treasure that should not be missed. This is a must to add to this year's reading list.
http://tweezlereads.blogspot.com/2010...
This praise about the prose reminds me some of the richest lyricism grows from silence. My wife, Jill, and I celebrate the fact She-Rain rose in part from a member of our family who never spoke a word. Yet she articulated love far beyond words. Below here you'll find a tribute to her, coming soon to blogs around the world. I'm deeply honored to share it here.
A Dog’s Inspiration to a Writer and the World
How the Life and Death of a Golden Retriever Might Save Us From Ourselves
On the morning of May 29, 2008, I lifted Savannah from her bed, carried her to the car, and made the longest seven-mile drive of my life. At the office of a veterinarian, welcomed by that profession’s unique form of love, I soon lay on a cushioned floor beside a golden retriever who showed virtually none of her age, watching both my hands stroke the face that had welcomed me home for thirteen years.
The answer to a yearning awaited us that morning. It was part of the quiet covenant I made with Savannah the day my wife, Jill, and I adopted her. When a sweet dog’s bloodline comes in confluence with our own, we human animals take on a sacred devotion. As sickness comes on hard and takes down the joy of living, caring dog owners are committed to shouldering our beloved family member to a merciful death. On the floor that morning, I answered Savannah’s courageous outreach for that death, allowing her to carry me. The peace that arrived in her final breath lifted the tide of my heartbreak. As I nearly drowned in sadness, Savannah showed me to the shore of a graceful goodbye.
Later that day, a prominent friend in Hollywood, fresh from the same grief in his own family, shared with us some comfort, but also a spiritual yearning of his own: Why would God measure the lifetime of dogs, and other animals we love, by a virtual hourglass when we live by a calendar? Why so little time on earth for those so good and loyal? It seems a cruelty.
After these months of healing, and the reporting of countless human tragedies on television, I’ve arrived at a conclusion: Savannah’s too-short life, like that of all sweet dogs, calls us to a fine urgency. Dogs get after big living. They seem illiterate of worry, yet able to read joys that elude us. They quietly shout to us: Wag your backside to music instead of your tongue to malice. Wallow less in pity and more on the bed of the one you adore. Give yourself, extravagantly, away.
I still fail her, of course. I live too much in my worries and sorrows and too little on the joy path she wore for me. Yet in these times of media-saturated human disaster ,a thought of Savannah improves me as a man, recalls me to life as a writer. Her memory sets off some musing about the hope found in the life and death of a good dog. See if these truths make the news of your times easier to bear:
Savannah feared nothing about death. She went to it with eyes full of gratitude for the way her life had been. Her eyes seemed to draw from some deep well of love, way beyond the crust of words. Even in her final hour, sick as she was, she lived as a divining rod to this love. No matter how I tried to comfort her, she served me – right to her last moment. The kidney failure that was stalling her life was no match for the servant’s heart within her.
The high pitch of biased media, politics, and the vitriol of social debate held no allure for Savannah. She made grace her way of life. She ran from loud voices and bounded to gentility wherever she found it. We could trust her to be tender, even with the smallest child. Savannah taught me there’s nothing so powerful in this life as a truly gentle woman or man.
There is no vanity in such dogs. They split mud holes, then track adoration across the floors of the humans who forgive them. They surely wonder why we care so much for things and so little for helping one another have simple wellness and fun. Savannah never cared for the size of my car. She simply loved the ride. She measured none of my money in how she valued me. In times of my sorrow, she made certain to place her head under my hand, letting me read a sense of all-will-be-more-than-well in its Braille.
With the too-often forgotten elderly in a nursing home, Savannah visited with no consciousness of herself. The sights and smells that repulse too many humans never seem to repel a good dog. Something innate about Savannah longed to care for everyone. She never appraised anyone by their politics, religion, or race. No human bloodline or job pedigree held any sway. Savannah treated the ignorant as kings and the malicious as queens. Even avowed dog haters valued what they found in her, and she loved them without pause.
Such a dog will forgive to the point of endangering itself. Some may argue enough hatefulness will turn any dog, even the most generous and kind. Perhaps this forms a caveat to us as well. Maybe good dogs teach us we will eventually draw back what we put into the world. Or is it that forgiveness becomes a form of capital we spend to the great shock of our enemies, an investment from which we draw the interest of turning enemies into friends? After every trip to the vet, on the heels of cavity exams every sane creature loathes, Savannah forgave Jill and me. We never had to ask.
In the afterglow of thinking of her, I adore considering how living so might change humankind. What might the news look like if everyone were so devotedly kind to everyone else? My job -- as a writer of news and fiction -- would so beautifully change.
Within an hour after putting her into that permanent sleep, I sat weeping at our kitchen table and wrote an open letter to Savannah. It let my grief out to run, with the memory of her a comfort at my knee. I leave you with a passage of it here, and a wish that the news of our future days will improve, changed in some small way by the legacy of Savannah.
“You tracked to the child who lives in me always. In this man you found a boy who loves you, sweet girl. Even in death, somehow you will always lead the boy in me home. I will follow your trail. And together, in the grand wet and muddy fun places of memory, we will be glad.”
###
Michael Cogdill is an Emmy-winning television journalist whose novel, She-Rain, contains two narrative threads dedicated to the memory of Savannah. She-Rain debuts nationally in March, 2010.
Reviewer Comments:
I am really struggling to write this review, because everything I've tried putting down so far, seems so lame. There is no real way I can describe how beautifully written this book is. She-Rain was written with the most beautiful prose and has that rich Southern feel that makes this book amazing and one of the best, if not THE best story I've ever read.
Beautifully written, "She-Rain" captured my soul from the beginning. The story is about an abused boy, Frank Jr., who grew up in a mill town in the 1920's with an alcoholic and drug addicted father and a strong and hard working mother. The emotions are raw and real and cover all from anger, hatred, and rage, to love, hope and forgiveness. The characters are so very real, so real that I swear I've known some of them from my own childhood.
Although I finished this book a few days ago, I still am breathless by this most unforgettable novel. This is a book that I will be keeping in my permanent collection and will be read again and again. I honestly won't be surprised, if in years to come, it becomes a classic. It is truly a treasure that should not be missed. This is a must to add to this year's reading list.
http://tweezlereads.blogspot.com/2010...
This praise about the prose reminds me some of the richest lyricism grows from silence. My wife, Jill, and I celebrate the fact She-Rain rose in part from a member of our family who never spoke a word. Yet she articulated love far beyond words. Below here you'll find a tribute to her, coming soon to blogs around the world. I'm deeply honored to share it here.
A Dog’s Inspiration to a Writer and the World
How the Life and Death of a Golden Retriever Might Save Us From Ourselves
On the morning of May 29, 2008, I lifted Savannah from her bed, carried her to the car, and made the longest seven-mile drive of my life. At the office of a veterinarian, welcomed by that profession’s unique form of love, I soon lay on a cushioned floor beside a golden retriever who showed virtually none of her age, watching both my hands stroke the face that had welcomed me home for thirteen years.
The answer to a yearning awaited us that morning. It was part of the quiet covenant I made with Savannah the day my wife, Jill, and I adopted her. When a sweet dog’s bloodline comes in confluence with our own, we human animals take on a sacred devotion. As sickness comes on hard and takes down the joy of living, caring dog owners are committed to shouldering our beloved family member to a merciful death. On the floor that morning, I answered Savannah’s courageous outreach for that death, allowing her to carry me. The peace that arrived in her final breath lifted the tide of my heartbreak. As I nearly drowned in sadness, Savannah showed me to the shore of a graceful goodbye.
Later that day, a prominent friend in Hollywood, fresh from the same grief in his own family, shared with us some comfort, but also a spiritual yearning of his own: Why would God measure the lifetime of dogs, and other animals we love, by a virtual hourglass when we live by a calendar? Why so little time on earth for those so good and loyal? It seems a cruelty.
After these months of healing, and the reporting of countless human tragedies on television, I’ve arrived at a conclusion: Savannah’s too-short life, like that of all sweet dogs, calls us to a fine urgency. Dogs get after big living. They seem illiterate of worry, yet able to read joys that elude us. They quietly shout to us: Wag your backside to music instead of your tongue to malice. Wallow less in pity and more on the bed of the one you adore. Give yourself, extravagantly, away.
I still fail her, of course. I live too much in my worries and sorrows and too little on the joy path she wore for me. Yet in these times of media-saturated human disaster ,a thought of Savannah improves me as a man, recalls me to life as a writer. Her memory sets off some musing about the hope found in the life and death of a good dog. See if these truths make the news of your times easier to bear:
Savannah feared nothing about death. She went to it with eyes full of gratitude for the way her life had been. Her eyes seemed to draw from some deep well of love, way beyond the crust of words. Even in her final hour, sick as she was, she lived as a divining rod to this love. No matter how I tried to comfort her, she served me – right to her last moment. The kidney failure that was stalling her life was no match for the servant’s heart within her.
The high pitch of biased media, politics, and the vitriol of social debate held no allure for Savannah. She made grace her way of life. She ran from loud voices and bounded to gentility wherever she found it. We could trust her to be tender, even with the smallest child. Savannah taught me there’s nothing so powerful in this life as a truly gentle woman or man.
There is no vanity in such dogs. They split mud holes, then track adoration across the floors of the humans who forgive them. They surely wonder why we care so much for things and so little for helping one another have simple wellness and fun. Savannah never cared for the size of my car. She simply loved the ride. She measured none of my money in how she valued me. In times of my sorrow, she made certain to place her head under my hand, letting me read a sense of all-will-be-more-than-well in its Braille.
With the too-often forgotten elderly in a nursing home, Savannah visited with no consciousness of herself. The sights and smells that repulse too many humans never seem to repel a good dog. Something innate about Savannah longed to care for everyone. She never appraised anyone by their politics, religion, or race. No human bloodline or job pedigree held any sway. Savannah treated the ignorant as kings and the malicious as queens. Even avowed dog haters valued what they found in her, and she loved them without pause.
Such a dog will forgive to the point of endangering itself. Some may argue enough hatefulness will turn any dog, even the most generous and kind. Perhaps this forms a caveat to us as well. Maybe good dogs teach us we will eventually draw back what we put into the world. Or is it that forgiveness becomes a form of capital we spend to the great shock of our enemies, an investment from which we draw the interest of turning enemies into friends? After every trip to the vet, on the heels of cavity exams every sane creature loathes, Savannah forgave Jill and me. We never had to ask.
In the afterglow of thinking of her, I adore considering how living so might change humankind. What might the news look like if everyone were so devotedly kind to everyone else? My job -- as a writer of news and fiction -- would so beautifully change.
Within an hour after putting her into that permanent sleep, I sat weeping at our kitchen table and wrote an open letter to Savannah. It let my grief out to run, with the memory of her a comfort at my knee. I leave you with a passage of it here, and a wish that the news of our future days will improve, changed in some small way by the legacy of Savannah.
“You tracked to the child who lives in me always. In this man you found a boy who loves you, sweet girl. Even in death, somehow you will always lead the boy in me home. I will follow your trail. And together, in the grand wet and muddy fun places of memory, we will be glad.”
###
Michael Cogdill is an Emmy-winning television journalist whose novel, She-Rain, contains two narrative threads dedicated to the memory of Savannah. She-Rain debuts nationally in March, 2010.
