Leona Palmer Haag: Me, after a fantastic run and ready to write!

Running:
My happy little village has no stoplight, pub, post office, grocery store or library. It’s nestled in a mountain crook with streams, deer, cougars, foxes, coyotes and bobcats. So far the cougars have eluded my sight. The deer have turned my yard into a super-highway. A coyote has high-tailed it down my driveway. Bobcats yowl at night. A fox keeps a den not far off and yaps after dark. Jogging usually takes me out of my happy little village, but I always return.

Writing:
I write romance and suspense and stick with chick-lit and women’s fiction. I’ve dabbled with fantasy—all female.

Adjusting Running Plans & Adjusting a Novel (Editing)

Mother Nature dished out slush. I outsmarted her and postponed running until the sun broke free and zapped her handiwork. She retaliated—blasting me with heat. I adjusted my route and enjoyed the run.

My writing workshop instructor blasted my final word count, demanding I slash away thousands with sharp editing. Realizing I have no desire to face rejection from a prospective agent, I’ve begun hacking away. Result: my formerly perfect novel is taking a shortcut to improved vitality.

Personal aspirations: Open my mind. Observe new angles. Pay the price for success. Claim victory.

Until I arrive back on my doorstep, my run isn’t finished and possible detours, side roads and paths are possible. Until my novel is printed, no word, phrase, plot twist or character is spared from changes.

Running & Writing Choreography—the Where it is and Why it’s There Part

I’ve gotta rant. But first, I’ve gotta tell you about this morning’s run: I ran up, down, past, beyond, around, near, over and back. Yup, I ran and I made it home afterward.

Now I’ll rant: Yesterday I finished reading a book packed with choreography—tons of over, under, through, by, near, on and around, but scant tension, emotion and depth. Here’s a sample (abbreviated): He walked over to the wall, leaned against it and slid down. She walked over and faced him. The other person walked over and faced them.

Three things caught me in the short paragraph: 1.) He felt tired, weary, helpless, and/or discouraged (he slid down the wall). 2.) She “walked over” (not significant—not to encourage the man or very original—she performed the exact same action he did, minus sliding down the wall). 3.) The other person did no better—he “walked over” and did nothing more. (Trust me, all three people “walked over” to the wall.)

Where the characters were placed and how they got there seemed to be the emphasis of the paragraph. Skip the fact that the man hadn’t slept for 48-hours and he and the woman were being held hostage, and the other person had a weapon in his hand. The choreography turned all three characters into mannequins without feelings, and the gun into a prop without any threat.

The following paragraphs never mentioned whether the man felt tired, weary, helpless or discouraged or if he felt some other emotion, so his sliding down the wall became insignificant—it only put his bum on the floor.

The book continued and so did the bland choreography. No one sprinted during the escape, no one grabbed anyone to pull them from a precipice, no one darted for cover and no one sank into the shadows—and yes, there were plenty of opportunities for all of that and much more. The characters never squirmed or schemed, but they did brush their teeth, notice the dust (which played no part in the story) and ate omelets.

Snoozing yet?

Back to my run: I skipped the dead deer route this morning—I won’t venture there again until after I check it out in my car with the windows rolled up. The days are getting warmer and I know what happens to carcasses in the sun—they offend the olfactory nerve. Instead—I jogged up an unexplored road after being promised a side road branched off fairly soon. It doesn’t. But it was worth it. I found a cute cottage to spark my imagination. And camels.

Now I’ve gotta ask: Which description of today’s run stood out? Emotions trump choreography. And so do camels in my little village.

I love spring! I found this in my yard after a nice run. It's beautiful proof the weather is warming, but winter hasn't let go.

Running with Exclamation Point Mentality!

Running: I ran past a dead deer. Road kill. Not a pretty sight.
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Writing: Revision time arrived for a manuscript I wrote 4-5 years ago. This one is a tough job—not pretty at all. I might as well run over it with a big SUV and bump it to the side of the road. From one page to the next no character says anything without it being the most important comment in the book! No one could do anything without it being the most important action imaginable! No one could think anything without it being the most important thought any brain ever had! No one could feel anything without it being totally heart-wrenching, heart-stopping or overly exaggerated! No reader could miss the forced adrenalin rush I shoved on them!
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In one writing class I was told you get 3 exclamation points in your lifetime. Period. (So please, stick with a period and don't use up your allotment in one paragraph.) At another class the instructor said you get 3 in each book—and don’t push it because you won't be forgiven or allowed a second chance. A self-editing book I read said you’re allowed zero. The author clearly explained why saying something about torture for not complying—or was it promising you'll never be published? Same dif.
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I have reformed. Wish I'd known then what I know now before I started that oh-so-thrilling! snoozer. If anyone out there wants to review an excellent work showing exactly why everyone should have a stink-bomb rigged to the exclamation point on their keyboard, let me know. I’ll rip out a page—any page, one is as bad as the next—of that overly exaggerated, wearisome, downright awful manuscript (except for the plot and characters, of course) and I’ll mail it to you. (Catch: Once you repair the damage, you must send it back—a great way to help me out for teaching you a lesson.) Reading a page littered with dead highlights is nauseating. Total brain kill. Not a pretty sight! Just like I avoided the mess on the curb, I'm avoiding cleaning up that manuscript.
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I live in a quiet little village. I run outside. And because my village is small, I happen to know how they dispose of road kill. I've witnessed two methods—the civilized city-worker way (shiver and cringe), and the fast and businesslike county way (gasp and scream!). Thank goodness my keyboard is limited to a delete and backspace key, although if I had to watch the chain-it-up and haul-it-off method used on an unfortunate exclamation point, I'd completely disbale the key! (oh, shoot, I did it again. Where did I park the snowplow key?)
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Running: Grasping Sunshine; Writing: Revising WIP

RUNNING: Running and dancing are an incredible mix. Proof: As I rounded a corner on my jog toward the mouth of a canyon, I spotted another runner approaching. At the exact parting point between morning sunshine and mountain shadows the girl's gait changed into a dance—a harmonious marriage of ballet and Kung Fu. When she caught sight of me she shifted back to running and laughed. For the next few miles I considered dancing, jogging, laughter, springtime and celebrated sunshine and health. It was amazing how my energized thoughts propelled my feet and rejuvenated every step.

WRITING: On Friday I finished the final edit for my current WIP (Work in Progress). I cheered and laughed and danced and celebrated the joy of reaching the top of a very steep mountain and grasping sunlight. Next peak—hook an agent. From there I’ll laugh and dance my way through more revisions as I run toward publication.

Succinct Running, Succinct Writing

RUNNING: Upstream from where the Snake River flows beneath Snake River Road, the water splits into two channels divided by a wide island. Despite our paddling, laughing and “oh no!” ing, the raft loaded with women and children didn’t escape the currents carrying us into the wrong channel. We waved goodbye to the dory filled with men and fishing poles. They’d arranged to continue downstream until dark and would pullout near their pick-up vehicle many miles away. With our pick-up vehicle waiting along the other channel—not an easy stroll with toddlers, we fought the currents and pulled ashore. My niece and I climbed up to the bridge and jogged along the road to get her SUV.

I hadn’t run that day—I’d driven hundreds of miles, scoured a mountainside for huckleberries and floated a gorgeous river where eagles soared and the kids called mild whitewater sections rumble-ettes. Our jog was nothing for my niece—a tall, mountain-climbing, energy-packed, fast-running, lean machine. For me, it was a major sprint. Pride forced me to keep up—and she was too sweet to abandon me.

I treasure that side-aching, breath-gasping moment running with a pro under tangerine clouds with great blue herons lifting heavenward. It was a killer, but perfect.

WRITING: Susan Duffy, one of my college professors, had a favorite word: succinct. She never lectured without it, drilling it into our heads. I was her star rambler—a potent challenge. She attacked my papers in red with one word: succinct. I had nightmares about that clippy demand and reformed.

Short jogs are exhilarating. Writing with the fewest words possible is vital. Cut repetition, choose great description, delete detritus. Don’t pile words on words. Say it clearly, quickly, and with style. The end.