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Another book review.

Unmasking the Face is part-text book, part-how to guide. I think one of the Amazon reviews describes it best: ‘A Must-Have Primer for Learning to Recognize Facial Expressions’. Unmasking the face demonstrates the science behind facial move and how emotion displays itself. No doubt useful for actors, salesmen, simiar professions, I’ve been finding it exceptionally useful for writing about character’s and how they react to events. There’s nothing quite as distracting as a character whose nose wrinkles in surprise, or brow furrows with happiness. Being able to describe ‘the white sclera of the eye made visible by the brow tense with fear’ makes all the difference.

Cheers!

The footmen were the first to advance. They carried the white flag of their liege across the barren plain. They were met in the middle of the field by a brigade of the enemies dark-clad legions. They eyed each other warrily while the rest of the army moved in position.

A handful of knights, the bravest horsemen called from their homes, left their position at the back of the line and advanced to within a range of their friendly footmen who were being surrounded by more legions of black clad soldiers.

Unwilling to relinquish the field, the white king ordered his personal men at arms, to hold the line. His closest advisor, a nobleman of brave heart and great repute, took the field by the storm. He advanced quickly, unmolested by the dark legions. He eyed the enemy king, who fearing the Duke’s great spirit, ordered his knights to his side.

Seeing great advantage, the hoary king of the white flag, advanced his own knights beyong the center of the field. The enemy king, a notorious coward, pulled his Queen’s own men to defend his position.

As of yet no bloodshed had been spilt. It was all maneuvering and posturing. The true battle had yet to begin. This ended in an instant. The glorious footmen, bearers of the flag, engaged a dark legion, flanking them easily and taking the advantage.

The enemy responded immediately. He sent his Queen’s guards to shore up the line. The footmen responded valiantly. They matched the Queen’s men sword to sword, but they fell under the onslaunt. The Duke, his own flank now removed, was put in peril.

As an old and heroic man, the Duke knew his duty. Facing certain death he proceeded forward, well beyond where the line could protect him. He engaged the King’s knights, annihilating them to a man. As a bold, a triumphant hero his pointed his sword at the dark king and threatened him to his face.

It was a glorious moment, but it was his last. The Dark Queen’s brother, an able general of the crusades, furfilled his kingly obligations and smote the Duke. It was a terrible loss, but a glorious end for the grand commander.

The White King survayed the field. His center was in disarray. He order more footman to advance to cover his knights, stranded beyond his line. The Dark King sought to interfere with the preparation and moved his Queen’s men forward, but they were chased off by a division of crusader swordsmen.

Determined to be a menice, the Queen ordered his men to take the center of the field. Her pennat waved threateningly over the field. The White King wisely brought his siege engines into position, should it be necessary to remove her from the field by force. A second unit of knights, was moved onto the field as well, to threaten the Queen. Finally she was moved to retreat, but not before slaying another band of valiant footmen.

With a great yell the majority of the army clashed. There was smoke and fire. Arrows were traded and darkened the sky. Footmen on both sides died in their boots, still clutching their swords. The Dark King’s Bishop, a notorious butcher was forced to cover his king.

In an instant the Knights responded. Furious at the death of the Duke, they crossed the field and slew the queen. Unsatiated they captured the Dark Tower, a old fortification built in the days of Barbarians to hold the flank. It was a terrible loss for the Dark King and his men feared their demise. The Queen’s men killed the Bishop Butcher, a unit of footmen crossed the field, blood was spilt across the field.

When the smoke cleared the knights, the valiant knights who first carried forward, were dead. Slain of a pusillanimous unit of archers.

The Knights were avanged by the mighty siege engines. They threw their stones forward. Crushing the enemy archers and a units of knights as well. The Dark King’s army was in nearly complete disarray. His footmen abandoned him. His Knights and Noblemen were slain in quick order. His remaining loyal soldiers, crossed the field in a futile attempt to break through, but they were repeased. The might of the White Banner overcompassed the field. The Dark Knight, with a final brave gesture, sent his siege engines to bombard the oncoming footmen. They were destroyed and the King surrounded.

He stood amongst the corpses of his army, the dead horses, the broken engines, the crumbled walls. His own Queen lay on the field, dead. An honorless and cowardly man the Dark King refused to die with bravery. He called off the last stand, waved off any thought of resistance. He offered his sword and was captured, bound to live his life a testament to dishonor and weakness.

I hate St. V’s Day, so I much prefer to celebrate good ol St. Pat’s day instead. For those people dying to exchange expensive flowers, sappy cards, and bite sized candies the history channels ‘History of Valentine’s Day‘ might amuse.

Aussi, KM, je t’adore.

Back in this article I mentioned the Hudson River Reader call for submissions.

My submission below:

Miracle on the Hudson

For weeks I wracked my brains over what to write. Hudson River, memoirs of the Hudson River, recollections, musings. What could I possibly write that would truly capture the scope of the people, the towns, and the river itself?

I certainly have some things to say. I grew up in Goshen, well within the Valley and close enough to go boating or hiking during muggy, mosquito-filled summers. More recently, I have worked as a deckhand, on a boat called ‘Pride of the Hudson’ no less. I’ve gone up and down its length a hundred times, pointing out landmarks well-known and less-so, tossing rope in storms that turned West Point into a foggy nothing, buying fruit from dockside vendors between shifts.

Really though, these are splashes of color. They capture a few moments in time and place. The smell of the Newburgh docks, industrial, oily, fishy, the quaint peacefulness of Cold Spring in August; these are snapshots. They cannot possibly do justice to the Hudson.

And then there was ‘the Miracle on the Hudson’. In a week that will have scrolled by on CNN so many times it will be subliminally linked with images of Anderson Cooper. Right now though, a day after that tragedy, it is fresh and poignant and meaningful.

In New York, like nowhere else, we are used to the bittersweet taste of life. We are well acquainted to all the tragedies of life, petty and profound. A man gets mugged, but a support network develops in the form of a neighborhood watch. A school is vandalized, but people come together to erase, repair and then improve. On that most momentous of days thousands of people died, but the world saw heroism in its truest. We have seen it all and expect to see even more.

The Hudson has seen it all too and it has become a cynical river. With good comes bad, with bad comes good. If there’s a net-gain, it’s only at the expense of time and sweat and blood. Rivers are always fickle, they expect tribute. But maybe that is going to change. Maybe it already has.

Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger III, pilot of Flight 1549, landed a crippled 747 carrying 155 passengers into the Hudson. It could have ended in candlelight vigils and days of rescue divers pulling bodies from the depths of the Hudson, but it didn’t. Emergency workers responded immediately. No one died. Injuries were minor. The Captain’s a hero.

It’s the fairy tale ending, but it’s not at all a fairy tale. Just real life, tragic and heroic. It’s as fine a testament to what this river has seen and what this river represents as any of the thousands of similar stories that happen every day but never make the news. It is my fondest memory of the Hudson and my highest expectation of what the future will hold. It is the Hudson River in all of its glory.

~Robert D. Drake

[[Editor's Note: This was written by my friend, Krystin Barnett. Thanks for the submission!]]

Standing on the back of a boat in eighty degree heat, I was shaking. We were in the Caribbean on a “very special” family vacation, as my mom called it, and my dad and I were about to go parasailing. I wasn’t afraid of heights, and I’d probably done much more dangerous, and much more stupid, things before. Sure, hanging in the air five hundred feet above the ocean, being pulled along like a kite attached to a speed-boat driven by a rum-punch drinking, gold-toothed native didn’t thrill me. But it did look cool, your feet lifting off the earth, a parachute around your shoulders, and the sea beneath your toes.

My excitement rather quickly gave way to nerve-fueled adrenaline as our harnesses were strapped on; the driver’s gold tooth caught the sunlight as he shouted instructions, none of which I heard. And then the boat was no longer there, and the wind was tugging – hard — at our backs, taunting our parachutes to come play. Higher. Higher.

It seemed my stomach had abandoned me and stayed behind on the boat, the wimp. I looked over at my dad, who was grinning – or was his face simply stretched by the relentlessly strong wind? And inexplicably, I began to laugh; why feel afraid when exhilaration is available too? I laughed harder; I’m a bird! I’m a plane! I’m Superwoman!

That turquoise gem of a sea sat lazily below our bare feet; the island looked paler from this view, almost a mirror image of the clouds dotting the sky above. The driver signaled us by pointing with both hands over his head: “Higher?”

My dad and I both gave him the thumbs-up. The rope was let go to its full length, and up we flew. All too soon, the driver began to reel us in. But as we drew closer to the back of the slow-moving speedboat, I realized that this was the best part: forget the birds and planes (and even Superwoman), I’m James Bond!

That feeling lasted approximately twenty-four hours. The following night, my parents were mugged on the same beach that speedboat had picked us up from. My dad was shot through the hand. (The result of punching one of the muggers in the face). After a nerve-wracking trip to the island’s two-room hospital, where a gynecologist removed the bullet, my dad was determined O.K. He’d have to see a non-gynecologist doctor in the States, so we flew to New York the next morning. My older brother, who is in the NYPD, met us at the hospital, and promptly chewed our dad out for once again landing himself in the hospital. He also questioned my dad’s sanity.

“Dad, trust me, always just give them your damn wallet. Is this worth it?”

Scott’s partner, who stood beside him in the tiny room, snorted.

“Yeah, Scott, like you don’t give ‘em what’s coming to them down in Brooklyn.”

“I have a badge. And a vest.”

I nodded along with my mom and younger brother, but I kind of understood my dad, who was now proudly declaring, “They didn’t get my wallet!”

I watched as he argued with Scott, waving his bandaged hand around. I began to picture two thugs approaching my parents on that dark beach, only now I was with them, instead of babysitting my younger brother back in the room. As the images continued to form in my mind, I thought, why shouldn’t we fight back? Sure, my dad is an example of the prime reason why not, but maybe if the playing field had been leveled a little, the outcome would have been different.

Right before I turned twenty-one, I began graduate school in New Haven, Connecticut. It was a new apartment, a new city, a new chapter. My parents were healthy and safe in Florida, and I was loving my uber-academic environment. Still, almost inevitably, something was missing, or out of place somewhere. I spoke to my mom about it, whose first question was,

“Are you happy?”

“Sure, yeah, I mean I like it here, Mom. My apartment, my school –”

“Okay, but do you feel safe there?”

I had to think about my answer. I didn’t want her to worry more than she was already, but in truth I didn’t feel safe. Not anymore.

When I was a little girl, I thought, as many children do, that my parents were invincible. That our little corner of the world was impermeable. Seven years ago, I was a fourteen year old high-school student in Goshen, New York, and September 11th happened. Pandora’s box shattered my sheltered sense of reality.

A few years later, when asked what he thought about the overwhelming percentage of Americans who oppose the Iraq War, Dick Cheney answered, “So what?”

This effectively diminished any remaining positive thoughts I had towards the current state of affairs. And to top it all off, I managed to waste a good few months with a now ex-boyfriend who, let’s say, didn’t mind showing he was stronger than I was.

So no, Mom, I don’t really feel all that safe and secure anymore. In fact, I feel like a walking six o’clock news story waiting to happen. And I hate it. I’m studying to become a journalist, so that one day maybe I can travel and explore and write about what I see. But for now, I should be able to walk home from my parking garage at night. I didn’t tell my mom all of this, of course, but my prolonged hesitation told her enough.

“Listen, sweetie, I was just talking with Donna, and she told me about this kind of Israeli self-defense class that her son is taking. It’s called Krav Maga, and it’s supposed to be pretty intense. I think its what the Israeli troops learn in training? Anyway, her son loves it. Why don’t we look into it? It’d be really good for you to try, you know, even just to learn some basics. You’re all alone up there…”

She paused for a breath.

“You’ve already looked into it, haven’t you, Mom.”

“Well there’s a class right near where you live! And it’s difficult to find these Krav Maga places, you know. Look, I’ll give you the number of the instructor, just see what he has to say, and just try it if it sounds good. Maybe you actually won’t hate it.”

Predictably, I was skeptical at first, and it took three phone calls with the Krav Maga instructor for me to convince myself to go to the studio.

And predictably, my mom was right: it was intense. I was one of two women in the large class, which included some men who looked like they could probably fare just fine without martial arts. But when I met the instructor, I knew instantly he was one of those people you simply cannot dislike. And the class turned out to be, well, one of the best things I’ve ever tried. It’s a bit like Fight Club, but with grappling gloves and a little less blood. After a few weeks, I became part of the camaraderie between my classmates, and I felt like Ed Norton after he lives with Tyler Durden for a while. I felt great: harder, stronger, and much less afraid walking home alone at night. I invested in a heavy bag, worked out hard on my own, and it showed in class. My punches and combinations were more accurate, my roundhouse kicks stronger and less shy.

We also worked with plastic guns and knives in class; the gun exercises tended to bring about flashbacks. After a while, though, all I saw was my partner’s gun and my hands, and soon I was able to take the weapon away from my “attacker,” and then demand his wallet.

I still do Krav Maga in that same class, and I feel like a new person every time. I’m not flying above the ocean like Superwoman, but when I hit that heavy bag, or my partner, it’s like my feet are landing on the back of that boat all over again. I wonder if MI6 is hiring…

I’m bad at outlining. It’s true from beginning to end, first scene to last, major character to minor, world setting to room. I’m just flat out bad at outlining.

On shorter works, like say, this article, I can manage a decent collection of ideas: lure the reader with a hook (I’m bad at outlining), provide some humor (ba dum ching), lead into an explanation of the topic (outlining), provide the meat (some links to outlining resources), close out with a discussion of the middle section, and then end it all with another hook to bring the writer back. It’s a simple process I’ve done a billion times so I barely even bother to write it all down.

When it comes to novels though, I completely fall apart. I’ll jot down a few ideas for the intro and maybe a few key scenes that I want to get to, but I leave the plot loose and dive into the writing before I even know all the characters names. I jump into my new story excited and enthusiastic. I want to see where my intro takes me and figure out clever ways to get from there to next big scene.

It never quite works out that way though. I get lost between A and B. Characters get disjointed, continuity errors start to pop up in the seams, entire plot lines get tangled and lost. The solution, of course, is better outlining and so, below I’ve gone some links on different methods other writers have used to outline their stories.

6 Steps to Outlining

Outlining in 30 Minutes

Outlining Form

How to Outline Your Novel

I guess you know what I’ll be doing tonight! If anyone finds anymore good articles on outlining send em my way!