April 3, 2008 Writing prompt: I looked at my notes and I didn't like them.
I looked at my notes and didn't like them. Once upon a time, I'd called myself a writer. Ha! What have I written lately? Lists - lots of lists - most of them nothing but catalogues of things I need to do. Should do, not really want to do. Occasionally, usually when I've been reading a lot, I hear voices speaking to me, saying things in such a way that I will rush to put pen to paper and capture it. Please note, I don't mean that I literally hear voices. No, it's that certain characters I've created sort of pop up in my mind fully engaged in the midst of some situation and I "hear" what they need to say about it. So I capture those bits and tell myself I will get back to working on the novel where I've been telling their story. But I've not been good about doing so in over a year now.
I've got three novels in process. You didn't know that about me, did you? Why should you? I'm not going to tell you that I'm trying to write the great American novel, because I'm not. None of my so-called novels in process ever started with that thought. Nor do I think seriously about someday publishing any one of them were I to finish, even though my husband thinks it's ridiculous to spend time and effort trying to write a novel and care nothing about publication. The dear man thinks I write well, although his ideas and mine differ about appropriate topics, and believes if I'd only stick to it and seriously pursue publication I could make money doing so. Ah, there's the rub. It's not that I don't like money or that we couldn't use some. I'm more realistic about that aspect of writing a novel. I know the difficulties, the odds of getting published. He points to Stephen King (one of his favorite authors) and notes how many books King has gotten into print. I point out the incredibly large numbers of manuscripts that end up in the slush piles - if they get that far. I have no illusions of becoming rich and famous by writing.
All I've ever wanted to do, with respect to writing a novel, is to tell a story. I can look back, laugh and admit that I completed my first novel in fourth grade. Seriously, I took one of those old, black and white, hardcovered composition books and crammed it full with a story about a girl who made friends with The Beatles (I have no qualms about showing my age) and her adventures as she became an occasional singer for the band. Of course, it was a romance too with the girl madly in love with Paul McCartney and he in love with her. Are you laughing now? Many adolescent girls at that time had fantasies about The Beatles; I was no different. The "novel" was read eagerly by many of my classmates and I got lots of compliments. I do wish I still had the notebook so I could read it again as I know it would be highly entertaining but alas, the twin brother of one of my friends found it in her room. Andy was nosey. At first he thought he'd found his sister's diary; there might be some useful or at least interesting information in it. When Anne discovered him reading it (and probably shaking his head over the things girls will do), they got into a tussle and a soft drink was spilled all over it. Probably just as well. I'm sure I'd cringe reading through my youthful work.
I wrote poetry in the 1970's. Even had some published in small literary magazines and in a newsletter my office published. I tried my hand at short stories, but alas as Cicero (I think. My memory of Latin class is dim now.) said, "I write at length." So the novel is a better vehicle for me. I can't remember, however, attempting another until I was teaching composition at Virginia Commonwealth University.
One summer as an adjunct instructor I taught a class of a little over a dozen students. With one exception, all were residents of countries other than the United States. No, I wasn't supposed to be teaching an English As Second Language course in composition. My students came from Botswana, Germany, Israel, Russia. I forget the other countries. They were bright, interesting people, most between the ages of 18 and 25. I really loved that class although it was rough cramming a full semester's work into the abbreviated summer schedule, and there were some language difficulties to surmount. (One little thing that springs to mind is the lack of articles in the writing of the Russian girls. No "the"s or "a"s etc.) Because the schedule could be daunting for all, I made efforts to lighten things up.
I learned that the majority of the students wanted to try their hand at writing fiction and those who didn't particularly desire to do so were willing to participate in a writing a fiction piece for class. It's a basic truth that writing anything - even lists - a little everyday helps improve your writing. So I agreed we could do a sort of collaborative fiction project. It was a very simple set up. AS a class we would chose five elements that all must use in their short story in whatever way they chose. Everyone would write at least five pages of their story but did not have to finished it unless they wanted to. Everyone would share their writing in class. Everyone - including me. I got to chose the type of the five elements; they got to define them for the story.
The five elements I chose were simple ones: 1) time period; 2) general location of opening scene: 3) female character's age; 4) make character's age; 5)? I've forgotten. The students decided: 1) time period = sometime in the 70's; 2) general location = bar; 3) female character's age = 20 something; 4) male character's age = 20 something. They were excited as they could be - even those who didn't care about writing fiction. We agreed to work on this over the next few days at home (along with regular assignments) and when we met on Monday, we'd share whatever we'd written. A few of the students were eager to tell their friends in other writing classes about the assignment. One even asked if that would be alright. Would I get into any trouble because this wasn't a prescribed type of writing? I wasn't worried as I'd already firmed up my pedagogical rationalizations.
That summer I was in my late thirties, a wife, a mother of a teenage son, and was taking two more graduate classes in addition to teaching. I thought I'd go home that evening and pop off a few pages to complete this little assignment and get it out of the way. It wasn't going to happen that easily. The very first problem that I ran into as I thought about it on the way home was that I didn't know the first thing about bars. I never did the bar scene. I married at nineteen and neither my husband (my ex now) nor I cared much for drinking. It's not so much a moral thing although it appalls me the way some people use alcohol as a drug in an attempt to obliterate reality. I can't stand the taste of beer, don't like bitter tastes, worry about things that set off migraines, and don't care to lose control. That's just me. My idea of a mixed drink is a huge frozen strawberry daiquiri. Disguise the taste of the alcohol please. Anyway, I'd never set foot inside a bar; it just wasn't my thing. So how was I going to use that as a setting for the first scene? The other items weren't a problem. I remembered the 70's, remembered being twenty- something, loved creating characters. I just couldn't get that silly little story started!
When the weekend was nearly over, I made several attempts to start the story. All were miserable. I saw myself going to class on Monday with nothing to share. Oh well. I tried to convince myself that it was alright. Sometime in the middle of the night that Sunday, I woke from a very vivid dream. In the dream were two very vivid characters - fully formed, a situation between them. They were having a confrontation and I knew the general location where it was taking place. And suddenly I knew how I could briefly include a bar in an opening scene based on that dream. It didn't have to be a bar in the sense I was thinking of. Nothing like people sitting around drinking at Cheers. No. Since I "saw" part of the confrontation taking place at the beach, why not start at a seafood restaurant, the kind that are so familiar here. Most have a quiet little bar where diners can sip a cocktail as they wait for a table. That would work. I got up and wrote and wrote and wrote. It all came together pretty well, especially for a first draft which is all wee were doing.
On Monday, the class enjoyed reading their stories. It was fun to see how different people could take the same elements and create very different stories. Of course, many were predictable - the sort of lazy summer afternoon at a street side bar in Paris where boy and girl meet for a drink as a romantic prelude. That's okay. I read my story too - the first draft of the pages I'd completed and overall got rave reviews. Most loved the characters and wanted to hear more of them. Some asked how I'd come up with them, how they could be so "complete" (their words) on a first draft. I was a little evasive on that, although truthful. Most writers love people. We observe them, make mental note of turns of phrase, facial expressions, and so on. Most fully realized characters are composites of people the author knows, has observed, has imagined. I'd recognized a lot of what went into the two characters I'd written when I'd written my notes on the inspiring dream. I'd dreamed of the man who had been my high school sweetheart and is now my husband. (At the time of all this, my previous marriage was falling apart for reasons that aren't important here.) And the girl? In large part she was me as I'd been in the late 60's, early 70's - or as I remembered from where I was. And part of her was the me I was at that point in time, the searching me.
A young man from Germany, one of my best students, was quite critical in his review of my work. Now I mean that in the best way. That is, he gave careful consideration to the clarity of how things were expressed, tone, voice, and so on. Dieter was a jewel of a writing student. Not only was he able to express himself well and determined to keep improving, but he read the work of his peers (and his instructor in this case) carefully and thoughtfully. He critiqued (or responded as we prefer to say in writing workshops) thoughtfully, truthfully, meaningfully, and with considerable sensitivity. So I wasn't entirely surprised to have him point out a passage that he felt didn't ring true.
My characters, obviously a little uneasy with one another, but working at being polite and observing good manners, had been talking over dinner. (I got them out of the bar and into the dining room quickly.) The male character, Paul, had just lost his resolve to be totally charming and well mannered and had uttered a comment that opened an old wound in their relationship. Katie, the female character, had conflicting emotions: she was hurt, angry, even panicked to a point, but also experiencing longing for what she thought she couldn't have, determined to avoid opening wounds further, determined to pretend all was right with her world when so much was wrong. It was the sort of comment that might well have ended the dinner. Should have ended the polite pretense of both parties and resulted in, at the very least, Katie stalking out. When, instead, Katie managed a polite, if choked remark to the effect that she wasn't going to discuss that further and stayed put, Dieter declared the scene didn't make sense. From his perspective and, it turned out, the perspective of many of the young people, no woman would put up with the blunt and bitter comment made by my male character. Why on earth would she want to have dinner with such an insensitive jerk? Why indeed? My best answer was that life and relationships are never as simple as we'd like them to be. I'd written past the dinner but hadn't brought that part with me. Some of it was a little too personal, even fictionalized as it was, for me to share at that point. I did remind the students that they didn't know the characters back story (the history of the characters prior to this particular point in time), couldn't yet see motivating factors, and so on. I agreed that in the scene Paul came across as the insensitive jerk and that Katie came across as stupid or perhaps lacking in self-respect. And I told them, just a little, about the scene that would follow where things did indeed fall apart and where the reader would gain a little understanding about what might be considered bizarre behavior.
That was the beginning of one of the novels I have in progress. Because the story wouldn't leave me alone. It expanded. Not so much in a biographical way although I surely used elements from my biography. It just took on a life of its own. Stories can do that. Character come alive in some sense and insist on telling their story. Often they evolve, seemingly on their own, into something other that what you originally imagined. Really, it happens. Read what any fiction writer who has written on the craft has to say about this. I'm not crazy. At least I'm not alone in being crazy this way. So, for a long time, I'd get up in the night or early in the morning (and I am not a morning person) and steal a couple hours to work on the story Paul and Katie wanted me to tell. Then my reality changed sharply. I got a divorce. I moved back to Norfolk and in with my parents for a short while. My high school sweetheart, who had stayed in touch with my parents all those years, came over to help me with my computer. We fell in love again - no that's not right because we both admit we never stopped loving each other although we went separate ways. Next thing I knew, we were deeply involved again and then we were making plans for a future together. Throw in looking for employment, dealing with his first wife (I'm number three.) who decided to interfere with our happiness as much as possible, two step-children - one a nice, but neglected boy sorely in need of love and discipline and an angry and self-destructive young woman, plus a now long-distance relationship with my dear boy who was going to college, and an assortment of amusing if sometimes irritating new in-laws and the novel took a backseat to life.
The other two? One dates back from years ago, conceived back when I was a supervisor at the local telephone company bored on a late-night shift and dreaming of other lives. The third, started with some characters who just popped into my head with their assorted problems in living. What do all three have in common? My fascination with people and the relationships we form. Oh, if I were writing a blurb for the back of a book jacket, I'd describe them in different terms. For example, the first one would be described as having themes such as "the importance of friendships" and "the enduring quality of love." I can laugh at myself. As I told you before, I have no illusions of grandeur in this regard. An former writing student, feeling herself sufficiently mentored and improved in her writing, decided to lecture me once on the importance of symbolism and lofty themes in writing. She would not write what she described as grocery store paper-backs. Certainly not romance novels! Disdainfully, she spoke of writing truly "literary" works and told me the novel I was working on about Paul and Katie was a romance and as such not a literary work. She'd lost respect for my writing; she would be so much better. I have to laugh now thinking of that somewhat heated discussion. It didn't matter that I made no pretense to writing a "truly literary work. I was fascinated to hear her definition of what was literary and, I confess, being a serious student of good literature, I did try to educate a bit. Tried to steer the conversation to a discussion of "true and lasting value" in a work of fiction - what it is, why it matters, examples, and so on. I'm sure I managed to bring up the fact that such beloved and valuable classics as The Scarlet Letter have been described as romances. And the fact that human relationships are something we can all relate to, can recognize the mystery in. That for me, one of the criteria for "true and lasting value" consists of learning something of the human condition.
Oh dear, I'm on my literature soap box it seems! And all because the writing prompt I picked for today was "I looked at my notes and didn't like them." It reminded me of some notes I'd jotted down to put with one of my novels and my dissatisfaction with myself for not writing much of late.
