(c) Cynthia Cliff, cynthiacliff.com

​I love watching Chopped, a reality Food Network show that invites four chefs to prepare an appetizer, entrée, and dessert, each within a limited amount of time and by using a basket with mystery ingredients. A panel of judges rates each dish based on creativity, taste, and presentation. At the end of each round, the chef with the weakest palatal delight is placed on the proverbial chopping block, leaving a Chopped champion by dessert’s end. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking—Dionna, why are you wasting your writing time watching the veg-tube? My reply? This is writing research, not time wasted! I’ve gleaned a lot about the writing process by watching Chopped. Really.

For example:

Don’t forget the salt

We all know how important it is to add the right amount of salt to a dish, right? But I’ve seen many an episode when a classically trained chef forgets the essential dash, leaving the food, while beautiful, full of blah. Writing lesson learned? Don’t forget to add sensory delight to every scene by engaging all five senses, including taste!
 
Transform the ingredients

Chefs on Chopped are often given the strangest of mystery ingredients. Sometimes, I’m like, really? Artificial spray cheese? But a skilled chef can do it! He can turn that gloopy yellow goo into yum. How? Creativity combined with freshness. (FYI: artificial spray cheese makes delicious creamed kale.) My takeaway? Writers can spin original plot lines into something new by being creative.
 
 Add some fat 

I’ve seen quite a few chefs rise to the challenge when the basket is inherently lean, like say there are Rocky Mountain oysters in there. (Can you believe people actually eat bull testicles? Ewww!) A chef will slice them thin and deep fry them in sizzling oil. Readers like the taste of “fat,” too. They want stories full of emotion. Fat is where it’s at in a good way, at least when it comes to writing.

Sauce it together

I’ve seen chefs on the show rise to the top by using the unique flavor profile of an ingredient, like preserved rice juice, to create a delicious sauce that ties their dessert together. Writing lesson? We can tie our scenes together with a “sauce,” a theme, a setting, a mood.

Use the pantry wisely

Besides the basket ingredients, chefs on the show are encouraged to use fresh ingredients from the Chopped pantry in their dish. But if they add too many—say, a whole lot of chocolate to mask the taste of durian—the judges will ding them. They actually want to be able to taste the ingredients found in the basket, even if it’s a foul-smelling Asian fruit. Lesson: as writers, we should remind ourselves not to overwhelm a scene or dialogue with unnecessary details or description. Less is more basket.

Be true to yourself

Chopped champions are often those who stay true to their own style of cooking, like the one who borrowed his babcia’s chrusciki recipe, or the one who created her naani’s curry blend. The recipe for success as writers? Take a lesson from Granny. Mine from your culture, your homeplace, your language, your ancestry to create stories uniquely your own.

Tantalize the taste buds

I love it when chefs on Chopped create something so yummy, so scrumptious, that it leaves the judges saying, “I can’t stop eating this.” As writers, shouldn’t we try to do the same—leave our readers not just satisfied by the story’s end, but wishing for a sequel?

Remember all the ingredients

To avoid leaving a mystery ingredient off the plate, I’ve seen many a chef on Chopped count their ingredients before Ted, the host, says, “Please, step back.” (I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been left holding my breath, hoping that chef won’t forget those caramelized hot dogs hiding beneath their station!) As writers, we should enumerate, too. Have we included all that makes a story a story? Do we have a main character wanting something and doing something to get it; does he have an obstacle in his way and something at stake if he doesn’t obtain it? 

Count. 

Taste your food

Tasting as you go along is a secret to success in any kitchen. Writers should also “taste” their words as they go along by reading them out loud.

There are many more writing lessons from Chopped begging to be shared.

Writers cookbook, anyone? ​

Salutations, fellow kidlit authors! If you're like me, you probably enjoy gobbling up good advice about the craft of writing for younger readers. Advice that's easy to use and served up in bite-sized morsels (because we're all so busy) is the perfect kind right?

Guess what? Meg Medina, kidlit author extraordinaire, offers such advice for FREE!

For about a year now, Meg has hosted a mini-video series on her Instagram channel (IGTV) called Meg’s One-Minute Writing Tips. Yep, that's right! Each video is just one-minute long! Doesn't that sound like munching on a chocolate bon-bon? YUM!

The reason Meg's advice is so delicious? For one thing, she knows a thing or two about writing yarns for young readers. After all, she is a Newbery-winning children's book author as well as a Hamline University and Highlights Foundation faculty member. For another, she covers a wide range of topics--from building likeable characters to plotting, from not rushing an ending to avoiding professional envy, from dialogue to self-care.

Mainly, the reason you'll enjoy Meg's series is because of the way she presents her advice. You'll feel as though you're sitting across from your friend who happens to be a kidlit pro, coffee in hand. And she's casually sharing with you what she's learned along the way of her writing journey. 

Bottom line: Meg's One-Minute Writing Tips is like having a super friendly, seasoned author encouraging you as a children's book writer, saying "You can do this! I know you can!"

You'll find links to Meg's One-Minute Writing Tips on her Instagram channel (HERE) and posted throughout her Twitter feed (HERE). Start by watching her first segment "On Characters" HERE.
​
Happy learning! (And oh, please share your favorite writing tip in the comments of this post.)

The sky is an opened parasol hovering above … or is it Velcro stretching taut across the horizon, better yet, is it mashed potatoes filling a blue expanse…?

Truth be told, if the penned stylist doesn't know who is looking at the sky, then the whole manuscript-troposphere is a muddled mess!

So…what’s the sky made of? Is it a Parasol Or Velcro? It all depends on whose eyes are gazing upward—the POV—doesn't it.


Who’s gawking up?
If the eyes gawking up are of a teenage girl from Harlem, New York, then the stars filling the firmament sure better not look like the shining scales of a freshly caught herring. And if the eyes are of a ten-year-old boy from the hollers of an Appalachian Mountain range, then the bejeweled night canopy sure better not look like an aluminum garbage can stretched from North Street to South Street with headlights bouncing on it.

Talk about whipping up some unsettling wind conditions for anyone attempting to hang glide in the sky of your created world! The poor reader piloting such a confused story will probably feel lightheaded due to POV-oxygen deprivation! (Look out below! She’s coming in hard!) And that’s your manuscript hitting the reject pile. 

Be kind to your reader, will you? Let the POV-air blow gently, steadily, consistently.

Eye know what eye am seeing!
No matter if your narration, the point of view, of your story is in the first person: “I looked at the sky…”, and I’m Jimmy and—Get back writer!—I know how I see the sky!

Or if it is in the limited third person: “Jimmy looked at the sky….”, and I’m the narrator seeing everything through Jimmy’s eyes, so, don’t question me, I know how Jimmy sees the sky.

Or if it's in an omniscient voice: “That whippersnapper Jim looked at the sky…”, and I’m a wise, old man from Kentucky, so I know how Jim and everyone else sees the sky. What’s more, I’ll describe it in my own crotchety way!

No matter any of that. The bottom line is that the sky must be seen through the eyes of whom the story speaks. That’s POV, plain and simple.

Right Shade of Blue  
If you really want to get the hue of blue right for the arch above, consider this: How does my character feel when he’s outside staring heavenward?

Is he a downhearted charcoal-gray? Then surely he won’t describe the sunset as an ice cream sundae with rainbow sprinkles.

Is he feeling a jubilant baby blue? Then his eyes must not wander aimlessly toward dusky clouds that seem to be oozing black ink. Heavens, no! Do that and your reader will be yelling, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”

The mood of each scene and the character’s state of mind at any given time during the narration of the story must influence the POV.

Is Columbus breathing this air, too? Think about this, too. When was Jimmy born? If the kid came into the world in the 1800s, he’ll not describe the sky the exact same way as if he was born in the year 2013, or 2504. Research (for historical fiction), imagination (for a futuristic envisioning), and at all times, observing the world as Jimmy would, will bring your POV clearly into focus.

So next time your character gazes into the sky, how will he or she describe it? Like a parasol or Velcro? Spend time getting into the head of your character or narrator, and then you’ll know just what to make of the blue bowl above us!
Suggested Reading: 
Description by Monica Wood, published by Writer’s Digest Books.

I loved my yellow, crocheted hat with the little ball on top. I felt so French, so hip, so amazing. So when my friend saw me (yet once again) adorned in the relic that I had retrieved from a thrift shop, she shook her head and said, "Don't ever wear that again, Dionna." I was shocked, hurt, mad, really mad.  

"But I like it!" I said. 


I had liked it when I had gone shopping and a little girl peered over her mother's shoulder and said "Hat! Hat! Hat!" and her mother turned, looked, and said "Haaaatt." 


I had liked it when I stood in line at just about any store and folks did double takes and tried hard not to stare. (Okay, some stared.) I had liked it when I saw my reflection with my yellow hat shouting "Hello!" in a storefront window. And I liked it still! 

It was my yellow hat, and that was that!

But here was my dear friend--and she TELLS THE TRUTH--looking at me, shaking her head. "No, Dionna. Never wear it again." And that was all she said.

I went home (wearing my hat) and looked myself over in the mirror. I couldn't see it. The hat was so cute. So retro. So YELLOW. How come my friend doesn't see it? What's wrong with HER? Then I paused.

I really trusted my friend's opinion. She had saved me from embarrassment many times before. She had fashion sense over me hands down. And my friend really cared about me. She wasn't jealous that I had the yellow hat and she didn't. So I had a talk with myself: "Dionna," I said. "Though you can't see it, this hat must not be as awesome as you think. You must rethink the yellow hat."

It was hard, but I retired my wondrous, yellow, retro, crocheted beret.  (And what a surprise to receive a gift from my friend of a beautiful gray hat, the kind "adults" wear.)

One thing I've come to realize over the years that I've been writing is that others often see my work more clearly than I see my own. What blinds me? It's my love for my own stories, my characters, my "cleverness" in writing. It's that yellow hat syndrome creeping up again.

There are two things that have helped me pause and rethink the "hat". First, I put my manuscript away for a while--the longer the better--so that when I look in the mirror at a later time, I can see the flaws. Second, I listen when someone gives sound, critical advice, remembering that they have no ulterior motive for telling me the truth--especially if they are an editor or an agent! I try hard to remember my little, yellow hat. (And when I forget the lesson it's taught me, I have an excuse to take my hat out and strut my stuff!)

I just knew I was ready for behind-the-wheel. After all, I had read and studied each chapter in the driver's ed. book, paid rapt attention in class, and had passed every test with flying colors. But when it was my turn to put the car into gear, it was another story.

"Haven't you been watching other people drive?" my driver's ed. teacher asked when I inquired which pedal was the brake and which one was the gas. "No," I had to confess. "Was I supposed to?" Before I could barely get down the road, my exasperated teacher told me to get out of the driver's seat. Now! He wasn't ready to die!

My problem was that I didn't know how to put the advice I'd learned in the book into practice. Of course, if I had been watching how good drivers do it, I would have had a clue. Why hadn't I thought of that before I got into the car to drive? 

It's not so different with writing. We can read advice all day, but if we don't observe that advice in "drive", flowing through a real-live book, it will be difficult for us to apply that advice in our own writing. No wonder we are told to read, read, read.

So--not wanting to crash my manuscripts--when a book resonates with me, inspires me, works for me, I analyze why the book "drives" so well. This helps me see how to put advice into practice when I take my stories out for a spin.

Take the book Jumpy Jack and Googily, for instance--written by Meg Rosoff, illustrated by Sophie Blackall, and published in 2008 by Henry and Holt. This picture book makes for a wonderful ride. The story's engine purrs. Here's what advice I see in action when I drive with Jumpy Jack and Googily.

ADVICE: Begin with a Problem.

Twenty-one words into the story and the problem is laid out like the plaid on Googily's pants. Jumpy Jack, Googily's friend and roommate, is sporting not only a brown-striped shell, but a crooked frown as well. "I'm nervous," Jumpy Jack confesses to his dear friend. "There could be a monster nearby and I'm scared of monsters."

With this, Meg Rosoff shows us how to begin a story in media res (Latin for "in the midst of things"). No set up. No expository blah-blah-blah. None of that pillow fluff stuff. Jumpy Jack and Googily's first few sentences simply present the reader with the character's problem. That makes the reader want to turn the page to find out how it'll all work out.

ADVICE: "Page" Your Story 

Jumpy Jack and Googily slosh and plod toward home on a hilly terrain, encountering little obstacles along the way. Is there a monster behind the tree? Ready to pop out of the paddling pool? Staring through a letterbox? Poor Jumpy Jack. He's a bundle of nerves. But thanks to Googily, when you turn the page, each encounter finds our little slime-trail-leaving friend smiling again.

In this, Meg Rosoff shows us how to structure mini-scenes within a story. For Jumpy Jack and Googily each small episode begins on one page, has a middle on the second, then (turn the page) ends with the third and fourth. Having page turns at such strategic places within the plot builds suspense and keeps the story moving along.

ADVICE: Use Repetition Effectively 

Jumpy Jack asks his friend Googily for help over and over again. Each time he does so with the decorum of a finely clad English gentleman. He would be grateful. He would appreciate it. He would feel better. Every time Googily replies patiently, reassuring his friend. "No monsters here," he says. Jumpy Jack sighs a "Phew!" in relief every time.

In this, Meg Rosoff shows us that a thread of repetition woven throughout a story makes the storyline feel like home, the characters feel like family, the setting feel like a view of our own backyard.

ADVICE: Use Humor 
Jumpy Jack is afraid of monsters with dreadful smiles, horrible scary hair, and long tongues, right? Yet, our dear Jumpy Jack has no idea--n'er an inkling--that Googily is a monster that possesses these very attributes!

In this, Meg Rosoff shows us that the humor in our stories must be well thought out, fresh, clever.

ADVICE: Visualize the Text 

Jumpy Jack's eye-spots twist in every conceivable direction. From beneath his wiry smile on his slug-like body, two buck teeth protrude. Big, blobby, blue Googily is attired in a green bowler hat, a red wristwatch, plaid trousers, pink socks, and pointy shoes. One arm drags behind him while the other totes an umbrella. And those goofy facial expressions as the two friends experience their day together--all make for a visual delight.

In this, we writers are shown that we need to see the possibilities within our text for an illustrator to work his or her magic. This we should do as we are outlining, planning, and writing our story, whether we are an illustrator or not.

ADVICE: End with a Twist 

Little do we expect for Googily to be scared of anything. But surprise! As the two friends come to the close of their day, it is our brave Googily that sports a nervous frown. It's Googily that asks Jumpy Jack for help. It's Googily that declares, "I am frightened of socks." As the two of them peer under the bed to see if the frightful apparel is present, another twist is spun! The sock says, "Boo!"

In this, Meg Rosoff demonstrates that a simple, yet clever twist at the end of a story is like an elegant evening of dining ending with a delightful burp!