Smile

Yesterday, Demon Baby decided to depict me in sidewalk chalk. We were outside drawing on the driveway, when he began assembling me. I say "assemble" since he was rather like Picasso. My legs were sideways and pieces of me were everywhere. But what amazed me was how he wanted me to hold still so he could capture me. "Wait . . . just like that, I need to study your arm. Your neck. Your smile."

He spent five full minutes on my smile. In Demon Baby time, for a kid who never stops moving, that's like a full hour.

Now, to be totally clear . . . the smile I got was a smiley-face smile. That is how four-year-olds draw. So whether he studied my smile or not, I was getting a U-shaped line. But the fact that he studied me--in fact insisted that I move into shadows so the sun didn't blind him so much--and painstakingly re-created what he thought was my smile in the middle of my face--with my two legs sideways next to it--said a lot about writing.

Because really, we all have a unique smile. We have a unique everything. And Demon Baby gets that. He spent five minutes because U-shaped line or not--in his mind, my smile wasn't like anyone else's smile.

That's how we have to write. Not only so our writing is unique, but that we pluck the precise descriptions that will set apart our characters from another writer's.

I got a sneak peak at my cover for Magickeepers II. I adore that they added the scattering of freckles on Isabella's face . . . to me, they are like a constellation of stars. And that's how I see her uniqueness. Her own constellation.

What detail have you recently written that you like because it captures something special in your mind?

Have a great weekend! Smile!

Authentic

I like writing fiction because I get to make things up for a living. But lately, I have been spending tremendous time making sure the details of my made-up worlds are authentic and REAL.

I think Demon Baby taught me this lesson. When I meet people who think they have a mischievious child, my first internal thought is Piker. I know there is no WAY their little devil can have anything on Demon Baby. And if I were to WRITE about a naughty little guy and NOT be the parent of a Demon Baby . . . I might have details like, "He puts worms in his pockets to keep them as pets." But I would never take it to the extreme. I wouldn't know how to make a Demon Baby story authentic. I wouldn't write that his mother sat on the living room sofa (the formal living room) and saw an earthworm wriggling across the hardwood floor. Or she found one in her wine glass, or she found one in the refrigerator on top of a lovely little brie she had been saving. No . . . I don't know that I would have been THAT authentic. (And yet . . . each of those things is indeed true.)

But more and more, with scene setting and characters, I find that I think I have my arcs down. I think I have my big picture. But I am constantly searching for that detail, that authentic scent or sight or mood or tiny button on a shirt or lost expression or . . . And I realize so much of what creates the very best stories are the details. They take us deeper into story.

Of course the key is doing so in such a way that the details don't bog us down. But that's the art of storytelling.

Oh and I have been thinking about "storytelling" You see, we spend a lot of time saying "show don't tell." But storytelling implies an action. You might call it story weaving. Or story spinning. Or pick a verb of your choice. But the art of storytelling to me implies movement, luring people into your world word by word. The details do that when done right. The connection is made.

So what bit of authenticity are you bringing to your storytelling today?

Objet d'art

I've posted pictures of my office before, but they're usually of my desk. This is one of my bookshelves. You can't see all of the details, but I can tell you that going from left to right across the top are: incense burner from my sister's trip to Greece; somewhere around there is the dog collar and tags of my much-loved dog, Honi; a vase my parents gave me; an artist's rendering of Oldest when she was 4; the low-lying green and yellow objet d'art is a lizard sculpted by one of my kids; behind it is a hand-painted photo of my mother when she was a girl, to the right in the smaller frame is a picture of Oldest looking JUST like her. There are Buddhas . . . way down on the end is my national Jefferson Medal for Public Service, one of my prized possessions, and a photo of the teen mom I mentored and her baby. On the next shelf down, far left is my Django Reinhardt album. In vinyl.

Ever read a book where the writer says the office was "nondescript"?

No so my office. It is full of assorted crap that I love, my object d'art.

And I think when setting scenes, it's these artifacts that can SHOW not tell what a character is all about. What is the ONE thing they keep on their desk. The one photo they have framed and sitting on the fireplace. The odd little item they keep in their wallet.

To me, scene setting is less about minute details of someone's office and furniture and their living room carpet, and all about what it says. WHAT does the objet d'art SAY about that person. If it says nothing, it doesn't belong in the description if you intend to write "lean."

At least that's my take. Thoughts? What do you have on your desk right now that says something about you? And what item is telling about your character?

Found Objects

Though George Carlin does a whole routine about it, I am not terribly attached to my "stuff." I don't have to have the latest gadgets, and though I admittedly love my Buddha statues, my photographs, and the piano I rarely play, I know it's just "stuff." And other than my iPod and my home itself, I don't covet big-ticket items. I don't need the biggest TV, the best car, the fanciest clothes.

However, it's spring cleaning time, and so I am going through my "stuff" and packing things up for charity. If you listen to the organizational gurus (and my house is cluttered, so I listen to them like a groupie), if you haven't worn something in a year, give it away. This does make sense, and so I am doing that with my clothes. Except for two of my sweaters.

In my bottom drawer, packed way at the bottom, is a white angora sweater with pearl buttons. It doesn't fit me. In fact, it's shrunk, and I haven't worn it since I was 19. But I love it. I adore that sweater because my father and I got in a HUGE fight the night before I got it. He was wrong . . . and hurtful. He said some things that people say and then can never take back. He still can't take it back. But the next day, to make amends, he gave me fifty dollars and told me to buy something special. He didn't say he was sorry. Just sort of thrust the money on my dresser. I left the fifty-dollar bill lying there and ignored him. And then my mother came into my room and told me amends are amends, and to take the money and buy something special, just as he had said. And that was an order. So I did. At the time, fifty dollars was a lot of money to me . . . and I bought the most extravagent sweater--the white angora one. Something I NEVER would have bought myself. I thought it was the mot beautiful thing I had ever owned. And it probably was. But I've kept it all these years because my dad said I was beautiful in it. And because it represents something. No, we can't take back words. That's lesson number one, and so I try to remember that and bite my tongue. It's the Buddhist way. Speak less. Not more. And lesson number two is about forgiveness. You take amends when they come.

My second sweater is black. It is hand-beaded, and it's vintage. When I used to wear it, which I did all through my early 30s, I had to wear something under it, not because it was revealing, but because it itched--pure wool. The beading is gold and in a very 1940s kind of pattern, and I presume the sweater is from that period of time. It belonged to my grandmother, my beloved Irene. Now, just to be clear, the entire time I knew my grandmother, the woman lived in polyester pants. Usually in patterns that a circus clown would reject. She never, and I mean never, dressed like a 1940s femme fatale. But the sweater was amongst her things when she died, and I took it and stared at it, and thought . . . at some point in her life she WORE things like that. I kept it in my closet for a while. Then I started wearing it. It never failed that when I did, someone would remark on it--"They don't make sweaters like that anymore." And no, they don't. It was beautiful, and I wore it for years. Now I am saving it for my daughters. When I see it, it's another lesson. That we each grow old, but in every older person is a story of who they once were. I try to remember that and to be patient with senior citizens. I love that my son volunteers in a nursing home. I tell him that everyone there has a story, even if they have forgotten it.

And now it comes back to the writing. Like an archeologist, those two single items tell you a lot about who I am, what is important to me, what I believe, how I live my life. But the rest of my closet is full of crap and yarn, and Christmas wrapping paper and stuff I haven't worn in a year and can give to charity. I chose TWO items to tell you about myself. As writers, we are archeologists. When writers tell you not to waste words, I think we need to take that advice to heart. When you describe a person, their bedroom, their office, you as writer are the filter. You as writer are the archeologist. You as writer are the creator. Choose to describe items that matter. Not for what they are or how much they are worth, but for what they represent.

So tell me, what does an object in your novel tell us about your character? What do YOU have that tells us something about you?