Hello, Sweetheart

My maternal grandparents were without a doubt two of the most wonderful people ever. Losing my grandfather at 16 was wrenching; losing my grandmother at 30 was worse. Because though I knew she was dying, and though she really needed to go to wherever it is her soul traveled next, I felt this gaping hole in my heart that, to be honest, is a little less ragged but no less large today. And still, STILL . . . I will cry over one or the other of them. It sneaks up on me at unexpected times. Like I found a note from my grandmother in her shaky scrawl, and I just burst into tears--LAST YEAR. More than a decade after her death.

And, like all people who lose loved ones, I fret about losing them AGAIN--forgetting them until all I have are little vapors of memory, not vivid ones. I keep their pictures near me . . . in fact, I am looking at a picture of Grandma in her beloved Mets T-shirt (I can forgive her for not rooting for the Yankees) right here as I write. She is always here, all the time.

But my grandfather, I struggle a little more to invoke. However, I have this clear memory--and can HEAR him--say "Hello, Sweetheart," as I ascend the staircase to their apartment. Because, for me, voice goes first. I remember smell (Aqua Velva and Listerine . . . and shaving cream), and sight, but voice seems to fade for me. So I hold onto that recording in my head. I desperately try to recall his voice. To keep it there.

Which leads me to this post. I was speaking to my brand-new editor last night--a brilliant guy . . . and soon, I promise, I will tell you more--but I find his enthusiasm contagious. And . . . we were talking about poignancy. I have to "find" some poignancy for a newish character because I have to give up one plot point in order to gain another. So he said, "Think about it. Find the poignancy in his situation."

And to me, that's what poignancy is. It isn't the big tear-jerker moment. It's not the vicious slice of loss. It's those subtle poignancies--the things maybe no one else ever sees. No one saw me find my grandmother's note in the garage in a box when I was moving. My mini-breakdown of grief was mine alone. Between me and heaven. No one sees me pray--sometimes I pray aloud with my children, like yesterday praying for blessings on them their first day of school, my hand on each of their heads, sending them off enveloped in prayer--but most of the time, prayer is solitary. It's quiet. The things that make my heart ache aren't visible.

And therein lies, to me, the secret of generating nuance and compassion and sympathy for your characters. It isn't hitting your reader over the head. It's poignant and quiet. The still, small moments that whisper of grief or loss or pain or sorrow or hope kept hidden from all.

So hello, sweethearts . . . how do you weave poignancy into your books?

Peace,
E