Our Story...Our Point of View

I’m sure you’ve been in a hurry before, driving in heavy traffic, and perhaps been a bit too eager to merge onto the crowded highway. Did you think thoughts like, “Why won’t anyone let me in? Don’t they know I’m late for my meeting/operation/UN Summit?”

I’m also sure you’ve been the schmuck stuck in traffic on the freeway when someone in a hurry tries to merge in front of you… (Although God knows why they don’t SLOW THE HECK DOWN – no meeting/operation/UN Summit could be THAT important!)

See? Same story, different POV.

Today, I was visiting a friend in the hospital. This friend is knowledgeable about medical issues and procedures, therefore had intricate, complex questions for each of the doctors and nurses who came into her room. She was anxious about a specific procedure – involving the insertion of a metal filter into a major vein in her body to prevent blood clots from moving into her lungs or heart. She focused on two examples of negative results she’d found while doing research, and looked for assurance that the suggested procedure was absolutely necessary.  She didn’t want to rush into taking action that was “too invasive” when there might be good odds that she could risk not going through with it.

From my point of view – sitting in the oh-so-comfortable plastic chair in the corner of her hospital room, balancing a Styrofoam cup of room temperature water on my knee and trying not to notice the antiseptic smell wafting through the room – most of these conversations seemed … well … unnecessary, quite frankly. I heard “filter to catch BLOOD CLOTS” and I found myself nodding in agreement. Granted, they weren’t my blood clots…but seriously? Even I know that the words “blood clot” and “heart” shouldn’t every occur in the same sentence, right?

I have no medical background, unless giving birth twice counts. So if someone told me that they could insert a filter to prevent blood clots from moving into my heart – I’d say, “How fast can you put that thing in?” Seriously.

Odds? I’m not a gambler.

Questions about risks? I might ask a few basics, but would be ignorant of many that my friend was clearly concerned about.

Seeking absolutes? I don’t think I would. I think I’d have to trust the medical training and professionalism of the experts around me. My POV doesn’t include experiences and knowledge about veins, blood pressures, thrombosis and embolism. Just not in my vocabulary, really. (I’d still be stuck on clots and heart.)

It was frustrating to sit and listen and try to see things from her POV, when what I wanted to do was grab her by the shoulders, shake her a little, and say, “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM, WOMAN? Let them put the darned filter in!!”

On my drive home from the hospital, I found my “writer self” wondering how different all of our stories would be if we could suspend our own POV and see things – really see them – from someone else’s angle.  Like the different drivers in rush hour – or different women in a hospital room -- how often do we each interpret our own story to make ourselves the hero? Or the victim? Or the villain?

There was  a piece aired on my local NPR radio station recently that talked about how Americans tend to  see the world –their own place in it, their stories – differently than many other cultures. We are the driver in a rush – with a good reason to be rushing. But we can also easily re-write the story so that on another day, we become the driver frustrated by others rushing into her lane. We accept both as truth without stopping to see that we have rewritten the same story to have a different meaning based on where we sit within it.

Apparently, we Americans are very attached to our own POV, and make very little attempt to see things from someone else’s POV. So attached, in fact, that we will change the truth of the story to accommodate our different role, depending on the day.

It makes me wonder how my WIPs would differ if I swapped my main character for another in a story. Why did I choose to write my YA novel from the girl’s POV, anyway? Maybe I should try a scene or two from the boy’s point of view – just to see what histruth in the story really is.

Flashbacks? Useful or no?

Question for you, CK readers: How do you feel about flashbacks in fiction?  Useful? Not? Overused, perhaps? Or used for the wrong reasons?

If you use them in your own writing, why? What purpose do they ultimately serve to your plot? For me, I'm fussing with one in particular -- trying to use it to establish part of a character's personality and show the beginning of a relationship. The seeds of a love story, so to speak, planted with a battered guitar on a hot summer driveway.

Here's a brief excerpt I've been playing with... narrated by Sydney, a teenager on the run with her boyfriend in one of my WIPs.

Neil's Guitar

Neil didn’t know I was watching. I didn’t move, just opened my eyes enough to see him sitting in the wingback chair by the window. His quiet humming hadn’t wakened me. Not really, anyway. The song had woven its way into my dream and brought me to the surface enough to realize Neil wasn’t beside me in bed anymore.

Instead, he sat across the room, his eyes closed. The fingers of his left hand played the chords in the air, close to his chest; his right made vague strumming motions against his thigh. It was a piece he’d written for me as a gift. It was soft and gentle, soothing and haunting. It raised goose bumps up and down my arms every time he played it.

It killed me that we’d left his guitar behind. He’d been lugging it around – almost everywhere he went – since we were both kids. He picked it up at a garage sale one day when Gran made us go with her on one of her “Sale Tours” around town. Gran took forever at those sales. She’d wander around, picking up this chipped coffee cup or that dented serving tray, remembering out loud some time when she’d had supper with the owners. It took ages. So I’d hunt for piles and boxes of tools or car parts, and Neil would hover at the end of the driveway, staring off into space, biding his time until we could leave. He’d never complain – he loved Gran too much to do that. But this one day, he got out of the car and made a bee-line for a battered, black guitar case.

It still had stickers on it from the previous owner. Seventies bands and peace signs and one that said “Make Love Not War” in tie dyed letters. One of the latches was broken. But inside, Neil found his treasure. An old acoustic guitar, missing a string, but still remarkably in tune for how long it had probably been sitting in a closet. He picked it up and held it to him like a baby. And he strummed and fingered the notes for the opening of Stairway to Heaven. He was thirteen years old and he’d never told either Gran or I that he played.

I watched him from where I was crouched by a banker’s box of old paperbacks. Gran watched him from the top of the driveway, even waving off Mrs. Cutshall who wanted to reminisce about when she last used the limp tablecloth Gran held absently in her hand. Gran nodded once, and started bargaining with Mrs. Cutshall quietly. I turned back to watch Neil, who had settled down in a rickety old ladder back chair, lined up with several of its mates along the edge of the yard. He’d moved on from old rock classics, to…strangely…children’s songs. He was playing All Around the Mulberry Bush for some of the little kids, now gathered in front of him. They clapped and danced when they recognized the song.

Even then – the slow smile that spread across his face as he held that old guitar made me hum inside. Made me feel warm. Made me want to touch his cheek or smooth the hair out of his eyes. Even then, I was in love with him.

Gran marched down the driveway toward him. “Pack it up, Neil.”

“Is it time to go already?” He tried to look bored again as he laid the instrument back in its case.

“Next sale won’t wait forever. And don’t put that back. Bring it along, now.” She pointed at the guitar.

Neil stood, holding the case to his chest with both arms. “Bring it?”

“Well, sure. It’s yours.” That’s all she said. Just walked back toward her Chevy and left Neil to stare after her, wondering if he’d understood.

“C’mon, dude,” I’d grabbed his arm and tugged him down the driveway.

Now, sitting here in this dingy little motel, all I wanted was to give him that guitar back, battered case and all.

He came to the end of the piece and stopped humming. I’d been watching his fingers as they formed the chords, but when they stilled, I realized he was looking at me.

“Did I wake you?”

I shook my head.

He didn’t say anything, but looked out the window and cracked his knuckles, rubbing his thumb over the calluses on his fingertips.  

“I love that piece. Takes my breath away every time.”

He looked back at me with his slight smile. “I’ll breathe for you, babe.”

How Many Plots?

I’ve been reading about lots of journeys lately.  Call them quests or pursuits or escapes if you will – but they all boil down to a beginning point and a period of travelling to get to the end, right?

In Ronald Tobias’s book 20 Master Plots and How to Build Them, he reminds us that Rudyard Kipling thought there were exactly 69 distinct plots in the universe. Aristotle, on the other hand, through there were precisely two, from which all other plots could be derived. Writer Carlo Gozzi originally suggested there were 36 different plots, but Tobias suggests his list could be realistically pared down to 18 distinct plots in use by writers and storytellers today.

I’m no expert – and would not propose a different number than those above; however, lately….well, lately it seems to me all of the stories I’ve come across have been about journeys.

Tobias’s chapter on the Quest plot outlines three different acts of the story:

·         Act One – the Question. A force moves the hero to act, either out of necessity or by desire.

·         Act Two – The Path. The journey that connects Act One to Act Three, the spice, the flavor for the story.

·         Act Three – The Revelation. The hero obtains or is denied the object of her search.

Off the top of my head, I can list lots of my favorite stories that fit neatly into this pattern. Raiders of the Lost Ark, Star Wars, True Grit, The Wizard of Oz, Shane, Outlander, Treasure of the Sierra Madre (or any other treasure hunt story). I could go on and on… I’m sure you could, too.

If pushed, I could start to break down some of these stories and categorize them differently. Tobias’s book offers 19 other options – like adventure, pursuit, revenge, rescue, riddle, temptation, metamorphosis, forbidden love, and sacrifice.

Is Dorothy on an adventurein Oz? Sure. Does Mattie convince Rooster to help her find revenge for her father’s murder? Absolutely. Does Anakin Skywalker transform from a little boy into one of film’s best villains while on his journey? Yes.

So while I’m stuck in a difficult patch with my own Work In Progress (see those capitals? After all the months of work…it deserves to be capitalized! Trust me!), I’m looking to other authors and other journey stories to help me find my way.

Beth Revis brought me Across the Universe – a journey across not only space but time. In it, our heroine must travel across the universe frozen like a human popsicle. When she is awakened after centuries (but still decades before the space ship’s landing) her journey takes an unexpected turn – and Revis uses her Act Two to give us one of the most claustrophobic dystopian settings in YA literature. I’m not sure Revis finishes the journey in this story and am interested to find the sequel so I can see the end.

(On a site note: Interesting to me that many YA stories lately are outgrowing a single book. In this one, I felt like I got Act One and Act Two (in part) before the last page…)

In Erin Morgenstern’s Night Circus, we have crossing journeys. Le Cirque des Rêves is open only at night and arrives in a new location without warning or advertisement. For decades, Le Cirque is the stage for a hidden competition as two magicians compete. No sure of what they are competing for, these orphans-turned-world-makers travel through cities and towns but also journey down internal paths of understanding and love. Is this a straightforward journey plot? No… There is nothing straightforward about Morgenstern’s book. But who wants to read about a trip that moves from home to far away and back again without some adventure?

Food for thought for this writer, to be sure. Does my WIP need to have all three acts solidly completed in one book? I think so…although if my story leads me elsewhere, maybe I should follow. Does my WIP need to stick strictly to a physical journey? Absolutely not. I think it needs to combine some of Tobias’s suggested plot types – merging adventure, escape, maturation, and quest together into one complete story.

But can I do it? Can I tell this story? Are there list of rules I need to follow – “acts” I need to be sure to structure and character development points I need before I can move my characters’ journey forward? I think the answer to all of those questions is yes… as long as I don’t let myself get strangled by the rules. Right?

Maybe that first rule of writing (WRITE!) should outweigh all structure and plot rules and regulations. If only for a while…until the story grows a little on its own.

In the meantime, I’m going to queue up a good Indiana Jones movie go work on chapter 23. Wish me luck!

Outlines and Re-writes and Edits, Oh My!

I haven’t been using outlines when I write lately. One of my WIP manuscripts is completely un-outlined. If I dig around in my files, I probably have an old plot treatment of some sort that I haven’t looked at in years. But no working outline. Each chapter is occurring as I sit down and write. Kind of organic, really.

My other WIP manuscript has a sort-of outline attached to the end of the manuscript. Literally…a few blank lines after the last sentence, you would find a bullet list of the events in the plot. I ended up jotting down the high-level plot points on this one because I found myself getting swept up in the fantasy of this story. There are magic, dragons, and journeys through dark forests in this book and I’d MUCH rather write all that description than stick to the action. So – to keep myself honest, I figured having a cheat sheet of the actual EVENTS that needed to take place wouldn’t hurt. I can definitely say it is handy for keeping me on the right track and keeping my action moving along the plot curve. This way, I hope I won’t forget any crisis points or events that will help my characters change the way I need them to as their story unfolds.

But…even though I do refer to those last pages of my manuscript when I sit down to work, and even though I just told you it is helpful…there is something so planned about it. Something the opposite of organic. Something sort of…well….limiting.

I will say that some hybrid form of outlining (not the roman numeral type from school, but still…) was absolutely necessary when I wrote a novel with a friend.  Keeping a full story straight as you move it from your head to your laptop or paper is hard enough, let alone when that story is growing and emerging from two writers simultaneously. It was sort of a magic trick – writing with a partner. And I like to think of our ever-shifting outlines and notes and conversations about what coulda/shoulda/oughta happen next or last or sometime in the book were organic in their own right. But we did write those “coulda/shouldas” down so we were both on the same page (pun definitely intended).

I think I like organic, but might need outlines and notes.

Here’s the other thing I should confess – the organically growing manuscript? It’s been organically growing for years. Really. Years. The outlined one with dragons? Moving much faster.

So maybe the outlines are not only a good tool for keeping the details straight – but offer some sort of impetus, too. An urge. A nudge. If something can be outlined, it can be written, right?

What about you? Do you use outlines? Do you take notes, write up other “tools” like character sketches or plot diagrams when you write?

The Drummer Boy

I've been stuck with my writing lately -- but was challenged by a friend to write a Christmas story and share it with other writers I know. So...as a gift to myself this holiday season, I've taken time for myself. Time to write when I've been not giving myself that time lately at all.

It is just a first draft -- the beginning of a simple story, but I'll share it with you. I've always loved the Christmas carol "The Little Drummer Boy." Even as a little girl, I loved the pictures in my head when I heard that song -- pictures of a small boy who wanted so desperately to show his love for his new king that he gave the only thing he had: his music.

So -- as inspired by my favorite Christmas carol... a first, unfinished (much work still to be done) draft of The Drummer Boy. Merry Christmas.

“He’s arrived!”

Father heard the shout and stopped walking. The night was black as ink, but I was still out with Papa and the goats.  I gripped Papa’s thumb tighter so I wouldn’t lose him to the voices in the dark.

“Who’s there?” Papa called.

The figures, dressed in robes that glittered with moonlight, waved from the other side of our little sea of moving goats. When they walked toward us, the animals scattered in two directions, moving out of the way and bleating their unhappiness.

I worried about gathering them back up, but Papa kept a hold of my hand and watched only the men coming toward us in the darkness.

“Blessings to you, on this beautiful night,” the tallest man said. He smiled at Papa and laid one warm hand on my head. He ruffled my hair just a little when he took his hand back. This man was not a shepherd, not in clothes that captured the moonbeams and a beard combed soft and full.  

Papa bowed his head in greeting. “Kind sir, what brings you through our valley tonight?”

“Haven’t you heard? The babe we’ve waited for has come.”

Papa didn’t say anything, but his hand tightened on mine again. I looked up at his face – the face usually full of laughs and smiles and kisses – and saw something new.

“Papa?” I asked. “Papa? Do we have another baby?”

Papa did not answer. He looked at the visitors, one after the other. “Say it again? Tell me again.”

The tall man smiled again and laid one hand on Papa’s shoulder. “It’s true. We are on our way to welcome him. The world will be different now that he has come.”

I tugged on Papa’s finger. “Papa? Who is coming? Is Mama having another baby?”

The visitors all chuckled. Their rumbling laughter sent me hiding in the folds of my father’s dusty robe, but I peeked out of my safe haven and sent a smile to the closest stranger. He smiled back and winked one eye.

“Where?” Papa let go of my hand and let me cling to his clothes.

“Not far. Only another day’s journey from here, we think,” one of the men replied. “We are bringing gifts to celebrate his birth.”

“I want a gift!” I said, boldly, from my hiding place.

Laughter rumbled from the men again. “Oh, my boy! He is a gift for us all, this new baby.”

“But who is he?”

“The king.” My father’s voice was soft.

“He is our new king,” the tall man said as he kneeled down in the dust. He held out his hand, each finger encircled with a wide gold band and jewels that reflected the stars.

I looked up and Papa nodded at me with a smile. I reached out and took the stranger’s hand. He pulled me closer, until I was tucked right up against his chest, looking out over our herd with him. One long arm pointed up to the sky over my shoulder. “See that star? That is a sign from God that his son has some to lead us all.” I could feel his voice against my back. He smelled of wood smoke and something spicy. I leaned into his warmth and followed his gaze up to the bright star.

“God’s son?” I whispered. Papa had told me God would send us a king some day and that king would teach us to love one another. He would bring all of God’s love down to us and keep us safe.

“Can I give the new baby a gift, Papa?” I asked from within the tall man’s embrace.

Papa’s eyes changed. He looked out over our goats and the dry ridge where we lived. He looked back over his shoulder to where our tents stood, a small fire burning on the horizon. Finally, he looked at the men surrounding me – at their rich robes and jeweled hands.

“We do not have as great a gift as these men, son. We do not have a gift worthy of a new king.”

“But your welcome will be gift enough,” one of them said. “His parents will know you come to welcome him. That will be enough.”

Papa shook his head just a little and looked at me as I stood still tucked in the man’s glittering embrace. “We may not have a gift worthy of a king, but I insist we welcome you for a rest and a meal. Come, son – show our new friends the way home.”

Inspiration, Dedication, Tremulation...

What inspires you to write?

I’ve had a few weeks away from my keyboard lately. I could blame it on my daughter’s new equestrian team or my son’s football games or my new job…but if I’m honest with myself, I think I have been my own biggest hurdle.

If you are a writer, do you ever go through times when sitting down and putting fingers to keys, words to screen or paper, just seems too painful? It all seems hard…and in a way, an open door to failure?

Harsh? Maybe… but I’m also my own biggest critic, so why does it not surprise me if I turn out to be my own biggest obstacle?

I have two WIPs going on right now – one a middle-grade fantasy and the other an edgy contemporary YA novel. I was on quite a roll with the fantasy there for a while, but got stuck in an invisible rut that has grown into the Grand Canyon where stories go to languish.

I need to get my creative juices flowing again. I need to find the energy and the strength to write stories again. I need to write. Then, perhaps, life will find a balance again.

So what do you do when you need inspiration? I used to belong to a writer’s group where we sat together and wrote “writing practice” a la Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones. We’d come up with phrases or even words, set a timer, and write until the clock reached zero. Once in a blue moon, we’d bring along pictures as prompts, just to change things up a little.

Maybe I need a little old-fashioned practice to get across that grand canyon.

Any other ideas?

Spook-tastic

I’m not much for horror stories. For example, the year I made it through about a third of The Exorcist with my hubby…I couldn’t go down into the basement for MONTHS. He literally had to rig a light switch in our kitchen that would turn on lights and a radio  in the basement so I could go throw in a load of laundry. In broad daylight.

Yep. Not good with horror stories.       

I had an encounter with an Ouija board when I was 16, which probably explains my fascination and terror when it comes to stories that have to do with spirits and evil and the like. (By the way, vampires don’t count. Especially sparkly ones. Just in case you wondered.)

The Ouija Board Story, Part 1:

I was home alone one weekend and a friend brought over the board. We joked and teased each other about it, but ended up lighting candles and turning off all of the lights. I don’t remember what questions we asked or what the answers were from the board – but I do remember that every candle in the room was extinguished simultaneously for no good reason. (Gives me goose bumps just to type that.)

The Ouija Board Story, Part 2:

Later that weekend, I was still home alone. Just me, my dog, and the cats. A huge thunderstorm whipped up and the power went out. No TV, no lights, nothing.

I huddled in an overstuffed chair in the family room (my back to the rest of the house) trying to read a book by flashlight. Strange bumping sounds started up in my basement. The dog perked up her head, looked past my chair into the kitchen….and whined. She was not a whiner, this dog.

The bumping in the basement was erratic. The dog started growling. My heart in my throat, I finally worked up the courage to peek around the edge of my chair toward the kitchen and the basement door. The light over the kitchen table – which should have been dark since the power was out all over town – was glowing red. By this time, my hands were shaking so badly, I couldn’t hold my book still anymore. The occasional lightening lit up the entire house with bright white light – but the glowing red in my kitchen was steady. Every time I looked behind my chair, that light was glowing…and sometimes swinging just a little bit.

I was bolted to my chair, terrified to move. To get to my phone, I would have had to pass the open basement door and walk right through the kitchen. The dog continued to growl and whine and I continued to shiver until the power came back on.

I turned on every single light in the house, pulled the basement door shut and blocked it with a heavy chair, and tried to get some sleep. (What did I think the chair was going to do? Stop some evil from coming up from the basement? GACK! But it somehow made me feel better.)

I picked up The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer by Michelle Hodkin a few weeks ago based on the cover.  Little did I know, an eerily familiar scene at the beginning of Ms. Hodkin’s story would suck me right in. Teenage girls huddled around an Ouija board… And I’ll just tell you this story gets much spookier than a glowing red light over a kitchen table!

Keep a flashlight handy. And maybe a generator. Just in case. You definitely want the lights on when you’re reading this one.

Have you read any good October Spooky Stories lately?