Shoes

Oldest Daughter is not really mine. She can't be. Oh, sure, I remember three months of vomiting and morning sickness. Oh, and the three months of total bedrest at the end. I remember WEIRD cravings. (Prepare to be grossed out--Velveeta cheese--which as you know isn't even real cheese but some kind of cheese product from a toxic waste zone--and liverwurst, which is so gross that the SMELL makes me ill now.) I remember a full day of labor, spiking a fever, and the emergency c-section. I remember a horrific recovery. I remember ALL of that. But really, she can't be mine. You see, she loves shoes. Not just shoes, but pointy ones and high-heels that have six inches or something insane. She will wear shoes that give her blisters. How masochistic is that?

Me? I haven't worn a heel in YEARS. I don't even like flats. I like the ridiculous Uggs I got as a gift last year, and I like barefeet even in winter (MAYBE I might wear socks). I like my cowboy boots, even when dressed up. And I like flip-flops.

But this isn't really about shoes. It's about the writing process where you try on shoes. At least that's what it seems like to me. You try on someone else's shoes and walk around in 'em for a while. You adopt their walk and their mannerisms, you run the way they talk through your mind until you feel like there's another person inside you.

Are writers naturally empathetic? I don't know. I've met enough egotistical ones to think maybe not. But there is a quality, I think, of being able to inhabit someone else's shoes. Whatever the writer's process, I think most likely, they are trying to imagine BEING character A or B. Even the bad guy. Wanting to understand the evil.

Or maybe not.

But for me, it's some sort of experience where I walk in someone else's shoes, even if their pointy-toed stilettos gives me blisters. Just don't ask me to do that in real life.

Thoughts?