Hearing the Who!: The Backdoor to Intention

"My friends," cried the elephant. "Tell me! Do tell! Are you safe? Are you sound? Are you whole? Are you well?" -- Horton Hears a Who!

"What's in your medicine cabinet? Your refrigerator? And your wallet?" I ask my new characters when they show up on the page. "Have you experienced grief, envy and joy? What makes you snort, or sneeze, or sigh?"

Once I know what a character does/feels/thinks, I can create all kinds of reasons why they choose those patterns.

I write pages and pages for each character's profile. I love this part of the discovery process. More than once I have learned that a character didn't belong in the story in which she first appeared. This is a great way for me to identify a ghost too - a character I very much want to exist, but one who just won't come. I know then I'm forcing a solution - perhaps walking too closely to a deux ex machina. And twice now I've had characters deliver the mcguffin in a play. Those experiences were a total surprise and so much fun!

Writing characters who listen to each other, or refuse to listen, is important to me. I can't do that unless I hear what they have to tell me. I have to listen to their "Who!"

A Ridiculous Number of Journals

I have eight active journals. Really. Among them are the personal processing journal, the family quotes journal, a reading journal and my five-year journal. I also keep a gratitude journal. This year's journal was made by Ashley Chassé from New York by way of Ottawa, Canada. Much more about Ashley's work in a post later this summer.

As we round second toward the last half of 2010 I thought I'd publish a few snippets from this journal. My journal can be both a list of the obvious and a measure of the quality of the problems.

Some days the best I can do is be grateful that it's nearly over. I'm sure you can relate. For example the entry for June 1st is a good-problem-glad-the-day-is-nearly-over kind of entry:

I am grateful for the gas in my car and the money in my bank account that provided me with the opportunity to be snubbed by five employees at Jerry's Artarama in Tempe, Arizona - to be specific.

The day before (May 31st) I wrote: I'm grateful for misunderstandings and the chance to set them right. For the courage to see the ending and the endurance to see it through. For the heartache and bruised ego wedged in between.

No major revelations; hopefully a little special in the yuck. We as a family are stuck in the yuck. Trudging to be sure, and we've a fair ways to go. Since I drive that train, we seem to share a bit more laughter and shed a few less tears when I pull out Miss Chassé's journal and scribble a couple of sentences. It helps, maybe just because I think it to be so, and that is good enough for me.

Waiting for the Solution to Show Itself Again

I spent 26 hours in San Diego over the weekend. I wish I’d stayed longer. On my drive back to Phoenix I think I solved the last bit of Sara’s journey. And then I forgot.

I woke up this morning and could only remember that it worked. Whatever I untangled behind the headlights of my car cutting through the desert is gone. My solution twirled back up like the plastic telephone cords we used to have – well some of us used to have – 35 years ago.

I was pretty bummed out about that this morning. I actually wondered if beating my head against the coffee shop wall would summon the process I found the night before. How did I wind text through the desert air to get to the final week of Sara’s story? Of getting to the knot at the end of the road where Sara is waiting at the bus stop. Where Sara is waiting to let go, waiting to embrace, and waiting to see if anyone will be with her in the end.

Then I realized I am tired. Worn out from the waiting, and the task of braiding new strands of waiting into some kind of macramé design in my own world. I know it’s part of life, and at times the breaks from waiting are shorter than at others…but damn.

So rather than compare myself to other writers, rather than chastise myself for not “pulling myself up by my bootstraps”, I went down to the warehouse to read. Rest, read and write in my journal. Today was a day for turtling. A good day to sit with Sara at the bus stop and wait. Wait for the words to come again.

Photo courtesy of Josh Sommers

Raising the Stakes

I recently had a conversation with another writer about what it means to "raise the stakes" for a character. In my novel, Sara has several relationships that break apart over the course of her story. I realized last week that a third relationship - one that she counted on forever - needed to implode. Perhaps forever? I needed this to happen to raise the stakes for her "choice" at the apex of the story arc. To further illuminate the resolution of the conflict.

The stakes in my own life have been raised over these last few weeks by the loss of a friendship. One that I counted on being around for a very long time. What I wrote for the novel preceded my own experience, but the proximity of these events is interesting to me. A foreshadowing of what my intuition was already becoming aware of in my friendship as well.

Waiting sucks. Loss sucks. And in art, as in life, the stakes are constantly being raised. I know how Sara's journey ends, although I'm not exactly sure how she gets there. In contrast I don't know how my story ends, and I definitely don't know how I get there. I hope life imitates art. I hope Sara teaches me about making good choices. I hope I pay attention.

Photo courtesy of Sausyn

The Waiting Place

"Oh, the Places You'll Go!" is my favorite Dr. Seuss book. I give a special gift set to everyone I know when they are going from and moving on toward.

"The Waiting Place... for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting."

I live in the "small town" of Phoenix, Arizona with three million other people. The neighboring "small town" that I am also tethered to is San Diego, California. You would not believe how small these two cities really are. Three degrees of separation and often less make it difficult for me to write about matters too close to the bull's eye.

Myself and many people I love in these two towns are "headed, I fear, toward a most useless place." Waiting for a date, an opinion, or a check. Waiting for medication, a friend, or a sign. Waiting for a text, a tweet or a status update. Mostly waiting for a Yes or No.

Here's the tricky part - I'm happy. In fact, in the face of this craziness and indeterminate waiting, this limbo, I am writing more than ever and finding joy in the crevices of my life. Paying attention to the details? Not so much - cuz the details right now suck pretty bad. I think It's more like opening up wide. Like Sound-of-Music-spinning-on-the-hill kind of wide. (Sorry if I just put that song in your head.) Less like demanding the precision of a flashlight and more like adjusting my eyes to the glow of a lantern.

Today we waited again, and again we heard nothing. None of us.

Tomorrow is Monday.

Finding Her Voice

My 14 year-old daughter, Sophie, wrote this piece about a month ago. I wanted to print it right away, "Do you want to publish it? You can put it up on my blog if you'd like."

She looked pensive. "I don't know. What if it sucks?"

Now she sounded like a writer! "Do you like it?"

"Yeah. But..."

"If you want to wait or whatever, that's perfectly okay. Really. No pressure."

"Wait. If you publish it on your blog, I want attribution." Now she sounded like an author!

I Finally Found my Overalls

My mom told me about a week ago that if I cleaned out my closet she would take me to get new clothes. Seeing as I desperately wanted new shirts this didn’t seam to be a bad idea. Today was a half day at school so I picked today to go through my closet.

It’s always interesting what you find in a closet. There is always a lot of “Hey I didn’t know I had that.” or “So THAT’S where my English paper was!” And, every once in a while you might find something you didn’t bargin for. Like these overalls.

I wore these almost everyday in second grade. During the summer it was just me, my best friend Ry, and the overalls. Climbing trees, pretending to be super genius wizards who could make a poison out of everyday items; we saw the world in a different way. That thing in the backyard it wasn’t a tree to us, it was a look out post over our entire kingdom. *Pauses*

But people grow up, and apart. And one day, one summer, there were no more kingdoms, no more crazy concoctions, no more happy endings. The overalls started to see less and less day light and I saw less and less of my best friend.

Years passed, schools passed, summers passed. New friends were made, I discovered what cell phones, make-up, and boyfriends were. But I never let go of that little second grade me who loved castles, adventures, and tree climbing. The little second grade me who loved her best friend. I did, however, start to lose my overalls. I would do whatever people said was the “right thing” the “cool thing” I was just looking to find a new best friend.

Back to today. I was cleaning out my closet, and I made two piles on my bed: keep and give-a-way. As I got to the back of my closet I figured I could just throw all of what was left into the give-a-way pile. But then I found my overalls, and this time, I didn’t let them go.

-Sophie Biddle

Too Tired To Title :)

I bet I woke up half a dozen times last night after falling asleep well after 1:00AM. Ugh. I can't complain too much because each time I awoke, a problem was worked out in the novel.

For example, I solved the question as to who gave the rabbit to Sara. I also learned the nickname Thomas gave Sara when they were little: "Skittles". I discovered when Sara's dad gave her the hat she's wearing at the bus stop in the story.

Am I becoming obsessed? I'm super tired this morning and not sure if I can type (although I probably will anyway) with any kind of sense-making skill. But that's what first drafts are made of - clumps of awakenings and discoveries and dreams.