because writers are curious
In fiction, can you break the laws of nature? Which ones and how do you know when you deserve to break the law?
Have you ever read a scene in a story that made you say, “But you can’t do that!” and the story is then ruined? Why did you feel that way? Have you ever read a scene in a story that also broke the laws of the possible, and you fell in love with the story instead? What was the difference?
Have you tried it this way?
dad on his dock during a drought
As a kid I would lie down on my stomach on the dock and look out over the water. If I caught the right angle, the dock appeared to move forward through the waves. If the sun was setting at the same time the water, the water changed color from orange to pink to gray to black. If the season was winter, black bird flew overhead from the mucky island in the middle of the lake.
In fiction, any place and any time can capture your attention if you look the right way. Have you ever taken a setting that you write about from a particular point-of-view and tried looking at from some where else? What about a character? Is there a particular character you could see differently?
What place do you write about most often and have you seen it from all its possible angles?
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P.S. Art Alliance Austin has linked people to here.
To actually see my art, go to Words Are Art.
Running People Over (or This Time I’m the Bad Guy)
going with friends to find an apt. for grad school
I didn’t see the girl until she hit my windshield. Then I saw nothing but the girl. In the split second that lasted a lifetime, I saw that she wasn’t dead. Panic speared through my chest. I got out of my car. I didn’t feel the rain.
“Are you okay? Oh my god.” Traffic moved around us. It was after 5 pm in February in the midwest. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
She stood up straight. Her eyes were wide. “I’m okay.”
“I’ll take you to the hospital,” I said. “I’m really sorry.” There is no blood, but she holds her arm close to her. “I didn’t see…” I shut up. She didn’t need to hear my excuses. We were in an intersection. I was making a right turn on a red light. There were no cars coming, but she had been standing on the other sign of the walk/don’t walk pole. “What do you want? I do anything. Can I take you to the hospital? Home?”
She shook her head. “I’m okay. You can…you can take me home.”
I help her into my car. “You sure you don’t want to see a doctor? I’ll pay. I’m sorry.” I said this again and again as if saying it enough times would keep me from throwing up. I couldn’t believe I’d hit someone with my car.
I dropped her off. She told me not to walk her to the door. She gave me her name and all that information and I gave her mine. She said she’d call me if she went to a doctor. I told her she probably should go, but who was I to make her do anything? I could’ve killed her.
Later, when I picked myself up off the floor of my apartment, I called the police to file a report. She’d already called them. She’d gone to the ER the police told me. She had bruises and pulled muscles, but nothing serious, they said. Except for being hit by a car, I thought. What if I’d been driving faster?
Writing something hurtful about a loved one isn’t exactly like hitting someone with your car–or maybe it is. And maybe you write something hurtful on accident because you aren’t paying attention. Maybe you’re a psychopath who likes knocking people down and backing over them.
All I wanted to do that evening was get home after two hours in a horrible grad school class. But getting home wasn’t worth possibly killing someone. What is it worth to get to the truth when you have a story to tell? Are there people out there worth stepping on the gas for?
Tease Me, Please.
friends in college
still in college
grad school--but some things never change
We fall into patterns. Habits. Roles. You’re the Helper, the Joker, the Troublemaker, the Listener, the Idiot, the Object of Desire–what more can you think of? Which role is yours? Take a wild guess at my role back in college.
Now, I’d like to break out of the Insecure Writer role I’ve cast myself into, but how do you do that without sounding like Smug Git Writer?
And then there are the roles for our characters. Are they rounded or flat? Cut with many facets or smooth and polished? Are your characters in the right role or are you trying to turn characters into something they aren’t? How can you tell?
What do you do to make sure your characters are true?
Ice Cream and Other Tricks of the Mind
“You have to go to the principal’s office,” the teacher said. “Take your things. You’ve a doctor’s appointment.”
“Oh,” I said. “I do?” My arm was in a sling and a classmate picked up my books and put them in my bag. I couldn’t remember anything about a doctor’s appointment.
The teacher frowned. “Of course you do. Now, your father’s waiting.”
My dad signed me out and carried my bag. I was in the 5th grade and had sprained my arm roller skating. “Dad,” I said. “What doctor’s appointment?”
He laughed and opened the car door for me. We went to the mall and had ice cream sundaes at the drug store. Then we went for a walk along the lake and investigated houses under construction. Dad let me take a stone from one construction site home. There was no doctor’s appointment.
A few years ago I decided to let dad know I remembered that day when his second wife was gone and he thought of me. My dad never took a sick day or missed worked for any reason. Usually if I got sick I stayed home alone.
“Do you remember that, Dad?”
My dad frowned. “I did that?”
“Dad, that was one of my favorite days of my childhood.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like me.”
“But you did. You took me out of school and spent the whole day with me.”
“I don’t remember that,” he said. “I think you’re confused.”
Memory is a tricky thing. Ever go back to a book you read as a child and find the book was nothing like you remembered? Was it better or worse? Or do you avoid going back to those childhood loves lest you are disappointed?
What books did you love as a kid? Do you still love them today? Why did you love them then? Why love them now?
All the Best Flaws Are Going Fast!
This video made me feel better. So, what flaws would you like to trade? Let’s see… I’ve got talks too much, obsesses, staph scars, varicose veins, insecurity, bad hair, half of my rib cage is concave instead convex, and a weakness for flattery. Any traders? Anyone? Anyone?
Stomach Turner
“You remind me of Lana Turner’s sister,” my dad would say to me. “Stomach Turner.”
“I put your school picture up to keep the roaches away,” he said every year.
And “If you’re lucky, one day you’ll be as good-looking as me.”
Not everyone finds the same joke funny. My friends thought my dad was awesome. But what about humor in writing? I think some of my characters are funny even though I do not set out to be funny. I can’t write jokes. But what about you? How much humor is in your writing? How much humor do you like in what you read? Do you think laughs are easy or hard?
What are the funniest books you’ve ever read?
Ask the Right Questions and Get No Answers
dad
“Where were you when Kennedy was shot?” I asked my dad.
“What?” he asked.
“Everyone always seems to know where they were when Kennedy was shot, so I just thought I’d ask.”
He shrugged. “I had to work.”
“What do you mean you had to work?” I asked.
“I had to make lunch for 500 people,” he said.
“But don’t you remember what you thought about it or anything?”
“I remember it,” he said. “But 500 people were needing their lunch.”
“Oh,” I said and looked back at the television. “Well then, what did you think about the Vietnam War?” My dad gave me this look as if I’d spoken a foreign language. “Were you for it or against it?” My mother had been against it. She told me once about a high school friend who’d died there.
“I had to work.”
“But didn’t you have some opinion about it?”
“I had to earn a living,” he said. “I didn’t have time for that.”
“But dad.”
“I saw Nixon once.”
“I know.”
“I was in my boat off of Key Biscayne and I saw this man in a suit walking down the beach,” my dad said. “And I thought what kind of idiot wears a suit on the beach? He’s going to ruin his shoes. But he waved to me.”
In fiction I try not to be afraid of asking questions, but knowing which questions to ask and how to listen to the answer is not easy. Sometimes I look at my manuscript and go, “What?” And if someone asks me what the story means or what it is about, I want to say, “I don’t know. I just had to write it.”
That doesn’t seem like a good enough answer.
What kind of questions do you think a writer ought to ask when at the end of the story?
Shaved Heads and Spit
the kiddo and me
I noticed that the young men all have shaved heads, but I didn’t think they had anything to do with me. I was at a red light and they were packed in the car behind me. I checked the rearview mirror to see how my son was doing. He was happy in his carseat, close to dozing after a busy morning.
It was a cold, gray day. The young men behind me caught my eye. The driver was climbing out his window. He wore a leather jacket and tight tee-shirt–just like the rest of them. He balanced on the edge of the window, pitched forward, and spit on my car. The young men all laughed.
The light changed. I went straight, worried they would follow me, wondering what I had done to get their attention and if they’d seen my son. They turned left.
One friend suggested my bumper stickers were to blame–Eve was framed, Happy Naked Pagan Dance, and a circle/slash W. Perhaps. But the image of that young man spitting at me unsettled me for the entire day.
I’m okay with people not liking my work. Sure, I worry about it, but it doesn’t keep me from writing or making art. But as I get closer to this art festival, I do wonder how I’ll react to mean or ignorant comments. Some people really do take personally work they don’t like. If I don’t like something, I move on. What is it with people who get angry as if the artist/writer has no right to exist. What is it about another person’s creative efforts that angers them?
Have you ever reacted angrily to a work of art? Or ever had someone respond that way to your work?
