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As part of this blog, I’d like to share what I’m learning about writing, real time. (I’m still figuring things out–I’ll own it!) My thought is that someone else out there who’s writing fiction might find what I’m discovering useful. Plus, if I write it down here, maybe I’ll be more likely to remember it. My brain turned 50 this past week, poor thing. Needs all the help with memory it can get. So here’s the scoop on a writerly tool I’m honing now … 

A few weeks ago, I gave the first twelve pages of my next novel to a writer friend and asked for her feedback. This new book is a murder mystery, set in 1880s London, and it’s my first time writing in a male voice. (He’s a Scotland Yard Inspector.) She had some very helpful feedback, part of which was that the Inspector’s character can be revealed more clearly by showing how he responds to other characters. Now, on a certain level, this makes intuitive sense; after all, we often gather our ideas about the people around us by watching how they interact with others. The man at the next table who loudly berates the waiter for an overdone steak? Well, he might just be having a bad day (his behavior hints at a situation that isn’t immediately obvious) … or he might be an entitled jerk (his behavior reveals his character). But my friend’s comment caused me to think, in yet another way, about how I can use interactions *between* my characters to represent their individual characters, patterns, and inner thoughts. Here is a snippet of a rewritten moment between Inspector Corravan and his sidekick, the younger Inspector Stiles, just after they find they have to go to Wapping (home of the River Police) to view a body.

(First version)
           I stood up from my desk, and plucked my coat off the rack.
           Stiles pointed. “You might want your umbrella. It’s about to rain.”
           I grunted, turned back, and picked up my old black umbrella by its curved handle.

(Second version)
           I stood up from my desk, and plucked my coat off the rack.
           As we left my office, Stiles stepped back in, took my old black umbrella out of the stand and swung it toward me.  
            I grunted and grasped the curved handle. That was Stiles, doing his best to keep me from catching my death.

Now, this little bit might be revised yet again, but I feel there is something gained with this change–a better sense of the roles and (unspoken) feelings Stiles and Corravan have with respect to each other. What I am trying to convey is that their relationship has been going on long enough that they have established patterns of behavior and levels of comfort with each other. Although Corravan is Stiles’s mentor, Stiles looks out for Corravan’s well-being; Corravan knows it, but he doesn’t openly express his gratitude. This moment also hints at their characters and their pasts, which will be spun out in subsequent chapters: Corravan is neglectful of himself and his health; born in Whitechapel and having lost his parents, he lived rough for a while. Stiles had a more nurturing childhood, with both parents present. 

Does this make sense? I’m still exploring the many different uses of this tool, so I’d love to hear from other writers on this topic, whether in general, or with an example of your own. Really! 🙂

Here are my 100 words for this past Tuesday (based on real events):
_____
            A stupid busy Monday ahead, and I’m making my to-do list as my son Kyle breakfasts on pumpkin pie (hey, it’s a vegetable). Thirty-one tasks and counting, each of them like a mosquito, small but formidable in a swarm. Return detergent (wrong kind). Write birthday card to Claudia (overdue). Fix vacuum–
            “Mom, why doesn’t anyone prefer me?”
            I look up to find a milk moustache on my talented, funny son. His gray eyes are sober.
            “I mean, at school, I have people to hang out with, but nobody picks me first.”
            My heart plummets, and I lay down my pen.
_____

At that moment, a physical pain hollows out the soft place below my ribs, and I feel like a black chasm–bottomless and ancient and roaring with wind–is opening up in front of me.

After a deep breath or two, I come back to myself well enough to know that there’s no black chasm in my kitchen; I’m standing in front of a countertop that still has a splash of leftover sauce from lasagne last night. I also know that it’s not my son’s present situation that opens the chasm of pain and loneliness and anxiety in me, for my son is safe and loved and has friends and coaches and teachers who think he’s amazing. Not that his feelings of longing or sadness or wistfulness aren’t legitimate; clearly something going on that needs to be addressed. But I need to be careful that I don’t place an old chasm of mine in front of his young feet. 

One of the most challenging things I’ve found as a writer is examining the emotional baggage I bring with me. It is at once the mulch out of which my best, deepest characters grow and also a potential trap that doesn’t serve me well. So the fact that I was bullied beginning in fifth grade (every recess, I’d run to the swings and jump on, so Mary Frances and Renee couldn’t drag me to the mud puddle in the far corner where none of the playground monitors went), or that my parents weren’t relational and resented having to nurture me (“Damn it, Karen, why can’t you do that yourself?”), fuels a YA character who feels like no one has her back. The trap is that not being chosen then can also cause me to give the feeling of not being chosen today more power than it deserves. (I’ve gotten better at taking rejection, but for several years, it had the power to slam the brakes on my writing effort for a day … or a week … or a month.) And when I find that feeling of “wanting to be chosen” in my child, it stops me dead in my tracks until I remember that I’m the mom; I can help here, even if just by giving him a hug and letting him know that I’d choose him over and over again.

People talk about “the desire for acceptance.” But I think that phrase doesn’t reach quite deeply enough. Most of us want to be not only accepted but chosen. By our parents, by our friends, by our teachers. And as writers–let’s face it–we want to be chosen by an agent, by an editor, by readers. But for most writers, there’s rejection. We’re not picked first. Our manuscript isn’t chosen out of the slush pile the first time, by the first agent we query. And then, if we’re lucky enough to find an agent, our manuscript isn’t picked the first time by publishers. Maybe our first manuscript isn’t picked by anyone. Maybe it’s the second one that gets chosen. And then we’re published and we get our first one-star review–and eighty-nine people “LIKE” that horrible review! (This hasn’t happened to me … yet. But I know someone who did experience this, and it made me want to slap the anonymous cowardly malicious reviewer.)

Being “chosen” is a powerful desire. As a writer, I longed for years to have someone reach out to me and say, “This is amazing! I want to publish your work.” But I’m coming to realize that I have to be careful of where that desire is coming from and how it will influence me. Sometimes the best way for me to feel chosen is to do the choosing myself–to work on my novel today instead of dealing with the mosquitoes.