Fictional characters quoting real people

This one is about if copyright [or any other kind of] permission is needed for quotes associated with living people, or from the 20^th century, particularly if such quotes are mentioned in biographies that are still under copyright.

People sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to their friends and family all the time, and half of them sing it twice while washing their hands, but until recently if you wanted to sing it even once in a movie you had to pay royalties.

I’m wondering what about if, say, a baseball-mad MC were to say things like “As Yogi always said – you can observe a lot just by watching.” Or a protagonist who, while facing a choice, thinks of the Madeleine Albright quote, “I have had fun being who I became, so to speak.”

Is it OK for a fictional character to quote real life people? Or, if the book is published, does it then need formal permission? 

Quotes like the examples you used fall under fair use, which is a slippery little thing and you need to be careful.

You can quote Martin Luther King saying "I have a dream" but you can't quote more than a few lines of the speech itself. Which is something the producers of the movie Selma found out the hard way.

You can quote lines from the blog, but you can't cut and paste an entire blog post and publish it.

Fair use means small pieces of a work, properly attributed.  When you use song lyrics, or poems or large chunks of someone else's work the lawyers start sniffing around.

Beowulf and me

Lo, Beowulf and I go way back.

I didn't read it in draft form or anything, but I did beta-read the ms before it went to the final scribe.

When I was a fresh-faced dewy eyed sullen, sleepless, tuition-stricken undergrad, I had to switch my major from Math to English and History for reasons too hilarious to enumerate while you're still drinking coffee.

My first class in the new major was Survey of English Literature 101.

I thought I'd barely have to study to ace this. I'd been reading for awhile; I'd read Gone With the Wind 27 times.  How hard could this be?

Well, hello Chaucer.

Howdy-do, Beowulfie.

Or was it the other way around?

I was wondering when we'd get to the real classics like Miss Marple.

But then I started reading. And listening to the professor. And then along came Grendel's mother. Now she was an adversary.

I was hooked.

I even wrote a paper on why Rambo was a modern day Beowulf, something that started a lovely conversation with David Morrell many years later at ThrillerFest.

Years passed, but my love for Beowulf did not fade.

When the new Seamus Heaney translation hit the shelves I scooped up a copy, and read it over the course of a week.  Just as wonderful as I remembered.

Then one of my friends, who had a career as a soprano at the New York City Opera,  knowing my love of Beowulf, told me there would be a performance of it at Lincoln Center. I bought us two tickets at once.

 The night arrived, we descended from our wheeled chariot, and settled in to our seats.

The first thing I noticed was that this theatre did not have Met Titles, the small screen that gives you the English words for the Italian opera being performed on stage.

Well, maybe they had an overhead screen like the NYC Opera. I wasn't worried. I knew this poem. I'd even re-read it to prep for this performance.

 

The lights come up.

A solitary actor is on stage.

With a drum.

Well, Grendel's ma doesn't come on stage in the first act, but where was the mead hall?

The performance commences.

And to my dawning horror I realize it is being performed in Old English. Or maybe it's in Klingon. I couldn't tell.

 I look around me.

No one else looks gobsmacked. Not even in the slightest.

In fact, they're LOVING it.

All 65(000) minutes and 3,000(000,000) lines of it.

When I crawled out of my seat at the end of the ordeal my companion in culture was glowing with joy.

"Wasn't it just wonderful!!!" she exuded as only a true diva can.

I reached for my emergency flask to avoid answering.

And that writer fiends was my last interaction with Beowulf until I saw this glorious cover of the new translation by Maria Dahvan Headley.

I will NOT be attending the performance should there be one.

Do you have any old favorites?

Effective comps in your query

There are some basic things to know about comps:

1. They must be newer books. That means pubbed in 2017 or later.

2. They need to be by authors for whom the book was a debut or Book #2.

Comparing yourself as a debut to #17 in a series isn't effective.

Here are several other tips:

1. It's ok to compare your book to one on the agent's list. This can lead to some pretty hilarious problems if you haven't read the books.  The only person who knows my list better than I do are the writers of the books themselves. I'll know if you fuck up.

2. You don't need an exact match for time period.  Yes you can compare your historical fantasy set in the Ottoman Empire to historical fantasy set in the British Raj.

3. You need to stay in your own lane. Don't comp your middle grade novel to anything adult.

Don't comp your narrative to a graphic novel.

The purpose of comps is to give us an idea of where the book goes on the shelf and what to expect. If your comp does that, it's effective.

Question:

A great comp title for my current WIP, in a world with no need for #OwnVoices, would be When Dimple Met Rishi (with magic). That world doesn't exist, and I'm not Indian (and my WIP doesn't have any main character from India).

Would it be inappropriate to use that title?

I'm surprised at the things people take offense to.

And right now it's a particular minefield.

 

Agents vary in their level of outrage just like people do.

The YA category is more sensitive to perceived slights than other categories, but everyone in publishing is aware of the problem these days.

 

If you use this comp you'll always wonder if it was the comp that led to the pass.

Thus, choose something else.

Not because it's inappropriate but for your own peace of mind.

Here, hold my beer

Just when I thought, ok, this is the absolute lowest it can go, 2020 cannot deal out any more jokers....this week arrived.

Yegods and little fishes.
I'm doomscrolling till the wee hours of the morning, and trying to remember how to make coffee in the morning.

One thing I've found that helps me get through the day is sending money to good causes.


My favorite of course is Melanie Sue Bowles' Proud Spirit Horse Sanctuary.
I love the idea that horses have a safe place to do horse stuff.
Of course, someone has to foot the hay bill, and I'm glad to help.

8 people at Blackstone Publishing lost their homes in the Oregon Wildfires.
I'm very glad to throw in with that fund raising effort.

And my newest one?
Wild Bird Fund
It helps the wild birds of NYC when they are sick or injured.
Here's one story.

Now, I'm not lying on the sidewalk bleeding but if someone wants to come over and hand feed me some sushi, I'm not going to bar the door!

How are all y'all holding up this week?
Any particular tips for not going insane?

Effective Personalization

A lot of agents ask that you personalize your query.

(My thoughts on personalization are here)

Beyond Dear Snookums (ie using their name) what makes for effective personalization?


First: Actual personal connection is great

Example: We met at Bouchercon when we were both blown away by Dana Haynes presentation on effective plotting.

Example: We met at CrimeBake and your advice on redrafting my query was very useful.

Example: I read your blog, and while you're not as funny as you think you are, it's been useful to meet the blog readers there.

(Ok, not that middle part)



Second: Research on how your book fits the agent's list

Example: I write fast paced thrillers and would love to be on the same shelf as Patrick Lee.

Example: I write first person traditionals with a twist like Terry Shames.

Example: I write fun cozy mysteries with off-beat characters who will charm their way in to your hearts like Loretta Sue Ross

Example: I write books like Jeff Somers. Which is to say with cats draped across me like a pashmina.



Third: Responding to a specific request for a kind of book

Example: I saw your #MSWL includes dino porn. Tales from the Swamp is dino porn

Example: I saw you tweet that you are "dying for good Icelandic noir" which is what Title is.


Least effective: your website says you're looking for high octane thrillers.

Least effective with a bullet: your website says you're looking for well-written books.


Now to the good stuff: what questions do you have?

Flash fiction contest results

Your contest entries were a welcome relief from the doomscrolling this weekend.
Thank you all for taking the time to write and post entries.
Here are the ones that caught my eye, or puzzled me.

Quite a few of you are engaged in fisticuffs with your novels it seems! 

 

 

bhirschscribbles

    The ol' dog rows. 'Is 'ands clasp raw lesions against them ores.

    'E wants water, not the brine 'round now. Just a cup. Lot of good 'is rationing did.

    'E sees nor 'ears nothin'. 'Ead lolls, 'is last dream is water, just a cup.

Very deft use of prompt words!

Steve Forti  

    “There’s no reason to serve plain hamburgers. Use exotic meats – giraffe, beefalo, llama, whatever. Be sure to cook ‘em low and slow, not just burn the outside. Don’t need people getting sick on crisp, raw llama steaks.”

    “Vlad, it’s a kid’s 5th birthday party, not a state dinner. Burgers and dogs will be fine.”

    “You don’t get it. You gotta put thought into what you feed them or everyone will leave unhappy.” 

    “Fine, I’ll go make some finger sandwiches.”

    “Wonderful. Put them next to the virgin blood punch. Oh, and your fangs are splotchy. Go brush before the guests arrive.”

Wouldn't you like to know what Mr. Forti's house looks like at Halloween?

Brigid

    "Fire."

     "Firemen."

"Pestilence."

    "Doctors."

    "Famine."

    "Our stores."

    "He might fall."

    "I'll catch him." 

    The newborn snored, sprawled contentedly beside his mother.

    "Any more?"

    She sighed. "Endless. Rabid dogs, political plots, children teasing. I can't sleep unless I feel him breathing."

    "You worry too much. You should be lolling about, rhapsodizing about his eyebrows."

    "The midwife says it's normal to feel this way."

    He stroked her hair.

    "Darling. Astyanax will be fine."

ohh!

So very very subtle.

BUT, his dad didn't call him that name, no? (ok, I looked that up in the Encyclopedia, I didn't know it off the top of my head)

Beth Carpenter

    “Medical history.”

    Rawlins scrawls his name. “You hear ‘bout that fellow what rented a radioactive house? Ten mil. Better’en most top lottery winners.” His hobby: concocting money-making schemes that entail neither investments nor efforts. 

    I refuse to be drawn. “Privacy statement.”

    Another signature. “Bucket of uranium ore, spread it in my basement—easy money.” He grins, imaginary millions already in his grasp.

    “Rawlins, it’s your house.” I gather the papers. “Who you gonna sue?”

    He glares like I snatched his lollipop. 

    I fan through the stack. All signed, including the transfer deed I slipped in. Easy money.

    No uranium required.

This is good, but I don't quite get it.

 

Michael Seese

    Nervous hands fumbling with the microphone, I thanked grace that owing to the venue, they couldn't see the fear sprawled across my face.

    I cleared my throat.

    "Good evening, folks. So... anyone here from out of town?"

    Silence.

    Apparently, irony doesn't translate well.

    "I feel good. I've spent weeks training for this," I said, flexing my thumbs.

    More silence, the wickedest of marplots.

    Then the heckling started.

    "Could this be more boring?"

    "I wish you could hear me snore."

    "LOL! LOSER!"

    I hastily switched off the phone, thus ending my first—and last—foray into the world of SMS stand-up.

I had to look up marplot.

I thought SMS  meant S&M but it stands for short message service.

So, I don't quite get this.

I have a feeling it's just me.

 

Timothy Lowe

    In the darkened gallery, heads lolled. Angelic forms sprawled, wings akimbo. Feathers drifted like confetti.

    “More plot!” shouted a voice from the back.

    “Snoresville!” shouted another voice.

    At the podium, a demon chuckled. Pointed at the other demon. Mugged at the bored crowd.

    “You losers!” shouted the first voice.

    “Fascists!” shouted the second.

    Spurred to action by the voices, the demons engaged in a baffling squabble. One talked over the other, who wasn’t saying anything anyway. 

    “Do something!” shouted a third voice. “Jesus!”

    The moderator shook his heavenly locks and did nothing.

this isn't quite a story, but it's damn funny.

 

Craig F 

    He bought him a suit, cut off his hair, and went off to work in tall buildings.

    But the virus arrived and they sent him home, where loblolly pines once swayed.

    There were no trees left to hang a hammock in and snore, sprawl covered all of his home plot. 

    The clouds were no longer cotton candy in the sky, the farms now grew servers and more.

    Worst of all was that he hadn’t been there to say goodbye.

ohhh, this is very evocative.

Not quite a story but nice work.

 

Jennifer Rand

    Coffee in hand and hopes high, I sprawl on my snot green couch to read a submission. Halfway through the query, I'm drowning in character soup with no plot. No stakes on the page. I plod on until my head grows heavy and lolls back. I snap forward and refocus with a sense of responsibility toward the author's hopes and dreams. But what's on the page goes nowhere, and my mind follows. More than an hour passes before I wake to the sound of my own snores.

    At my desk I choose the appropriate form letter:

    ...No, thank you...

 

I'm checking my apartment for video cameras.

 

Luralee

    Phone rings

    I select smileface.

    “How are you celebrating?” Her grinface asks.

    I hitch up smileface. “Watching my screen, same as everyone.”

    “Not Moreen, she’s going in person!”

    I attempt jealousface. “Lucky! She could get on TV!”

    Dog, oblivious, sprawls and snores. I nudge him awake—jealousface finally achieved.

    “Nana’s Making popcorn,” says yumface. 

    My stomach plots dissent.

    Onscreen, music begins. I paste on solemnface and scan the slavering crowd.

    Voiceover condemns the accused.

    Trapdoor drops.

    I LOL like everyone and rush to like, but cryface gives me away.

 

oh my god.

This is brilliant.

 

C. Dan Castro

    "Nice prop. Lot's beautiful. Let's experience the veranda." The realtor saunters out.

    HE'S NO REALTOR, I text. Difficult with a bubbleheaded socialite's perfect nails.

    MO REALTOR? I'm about to get killed, and my partner notes typos.

    HE'S THE MURDERER!

    NURDERER? LOL. LOOK, YOU'RE DOOMED.

    What?

    On the veranda, something pops. Like a buckle.

    SWARM. My final text?

    I charge. If the "realtor" is changing into his Gimp Killer outfit—he kills women, not gimps—then—

    SWARN?

    Sprawled on a settee, the realtor holds...a champagne bottle?

    “The seller accepted your offer!”

    WE PICKED UP THE NURDERER YESTERDAY. DIDN'T I NENTION THAT?"

This is a great example of a story.

HIlarious!

Just Jan

    It was a dismal day to work through plot holes, and the more Carrie struggled, the more muddled she became. Lollipop wrappers littered her desk, but the book remained a snore, a sprawling tome of frippery.

    Until the knock, followed by a voice that Carrie heard often in her head. “Dearest love, open the door!”

    The nerve! Not only had he been unfaithful to her protagonist, he also gave disastrous advice. “You’re everything that’s wrong with my story,” she declared.

    The solution crystallized. Carrie retrieved her pistol, flung open the door, and fired.

    “There,” she said, “I’ve killed my darling.”

Another great story example.

Also hilarious!

 

Colin Smith 

    I’ll never forget how she was sprawled over the chair. Head cocked to one side. Drool down her cheek. A vapid smile on her dry lips.

    Benson examined while I watched.

    “Wounds?” I said after a few minutes.

    “Eyes bloodshot. Nothing more. Neither cuts nor exit wounds.”

    “Then how did this happen? Her brain just plotzed?”

    “Perhaps…”

    Benson reached beside the seat cushion and pulled out a phone. He turned it on.

    “Text messages,” he said. “Last thing she wrote was ‘lol lol lo’”

    “What was she…?”

    But it was too late. Benson had scrolled up. He was grinning. Chuckling…

I don't quite get this.

I have a feeling it's a cultural reference I missed??

 

Fearless Reider

    “Doomscrolling again?”

    His screen dimmed. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

    “Wasn’t the light,” she yawned and sprawled, “but the absence of snores. What’s up?”

    “Killjoys at the CDC. No trick-or-treating now.”

    “What MORE can they take?” she sighed. So much surrendered already. No wee wizards or fairies afoot, no sweet Elsas trawling the streets for lollies and treats? A plot to sow misery. “Who’ll break it to the little monsters?”

    “I’ll think of something.”

    “You always do,” she purred.

    Harvest moon rose dark and brooding.

    “Something new, my darlings.” He clasped greedy paws. “We're going door to door this year.”

 

I'm feeliing like my brain is behind the times here.

I don't get this one either.

 

 

Tadizi 

    The beast lollopped toward them, gaining speed, but her two quick shots left it sprawled on the floor.

    “Sure there aren’t more?” he asked, gasping to refill his lungs with shallow breath.

    “Last one,” she confirmed. “We’re the only two people still alive. We need to leave before the infection spreads to us.”

    Their last argument seemed so silly now. She longed for her worst problem to be his snores waking her up.

    He kissed her cheek and turned to lead them away. It was then she noticed three splotches on the back of his neck and raised her gun.

 

I love the word lollopped!

RosannaM

 

    Big Dipper plum rested upon the chuck wagon as if to ladle out chili. I breathed in the endless sky, driving the filth of the city outta my pores. Phillip sprawled half out of his sleeping bag, snores rumbling like a Harley, spewing distillery smells my way.

    Dude ranch vacations tuckered a fellow out. I lifted his lolling head and toasted to the night. He swallowed, more or less.

    He was biding time till Jackson where the posh people were.

    I abhorred posh. I had a plot of land picked out to buy with the insurance money.

    Swallow, Phillip, swallow.

 

that first sentence is beautiful.

I had to look up Jackson, cause I thought the name of the town is Jackson Hole.

It isn't. (glad to be wrong!)

 

John Davis Frain

    “Things are in order,” Edward said. “I’m ready.”

    Visitor pointed at the pages. "This?"

    His life’s work, that. “My manuscript.”

    Visitor nodded. “And you would submit next? I mean, if I weren’t here?”

    “Umm, no. One more step. Still have to write a synopsis.”

    “So by taking you now, you’d never write the synopsis?”

    “I’m finally ready, and now you’re lollygagging. There’s some irony.”

    The figure sprawled on the sofa. Steady breathing. A soft snore.

    “No! Take me!” Edward grabbed its lapels. “Your quota!”

    “Plot twist, Edward. We’re way ahead of schedule this year. Start with the narrative arc…”

    “Nooooooooo!”

 

I think this may be non-fiction.

 

Marie McKay

    She was a witch. (She was a mother, a daughter and a midwife.)

    Three babies born dead just this year. Unnatural. (And three more made grieving mothers as children.)

    Hiding her craft, all the time plotting. (She had raised the issue of child marriage to The Committee.)

    Lollar Berns insisted he'd resisted her spells of seduction. (She knew Lollar Berns snored. She'd had to brew the lech a medicinal tea. He sprawled on the floor while his wife bore their fourth child.)

    The Committee gathered for the burning. (They couldn't know it would be their own.)

 

Gorgeous innovative form here.

I have come to expect brilliance from Marie McKay.

I was not disappointed.

 

NLiu

You think of it as urban sprawl. You snore past it on the train, heading for somewhere more important. Your lollygagging thoughts plod along their routines, sidle past the extraordinary without a backward glance. You aren't looking. So you don't see. Splotches of graffiti mean nothing to you. You don't notice the paint is all the same colour. You don't notice it's spreading. You didn't notice us arrive either. But, the thing is this. We noticed you. Are you looking now?

holy moly.

 

 *****

There are three outstanding entries here that just knocked my sox clean off.

Finalists: NLiu, Marie McKay and Luralee.

This week's winner is Luralee.

Luralee, if you'll send me your mailing address, and some ideas about what you like to read, I'll get your prize in the mail. 

 

 You won!