Cardboard Flatness

When I was in college, I triple majored in English, journalism, and sociology with a minor in creative writing (you could only minor in creative writing at my university). The creative writing department was headed up by Stephen Barza, who since passed rather suddenly from cancer. He was a gentle soul, a really decent guy, who clearly loved writing, and somehow infected me with that love. And the one thing I remember really learning was this thing about "cardboard" characters. They were flat characters, not three-dimensional.

Of course, I wasn't, at 17 and 18, really sure what that meant exactly. Sometimes, I thought it meant if I didn't LIKE someone else's character. Or someone else's short story. I've since discovered that what I now call a "meh" is often cardboard.

But ultimately, I came to understand--all these years later--that it's when I don't believe a character. When I don't FEEL a character . . . then it's cardboard. I learned this lesson, most clearly, in the heyday of chick lit. Now, don't get me wrong, I WROTE chick lit. I still have comedies littered all over my hard drive that I am working on. (Only now you have to call them romantic comedies or comic novels to sell them.) But I soon found out that in this onward rush to publish chick lit, publishers bought in quantity, and writers who were never particularly sure if they could write a novel, popped out of the woodwork with these tales that were rather like their lives or their lives in their 20s or college, with the idea, "Well, I could write a book like that." No research after all. It was all about the voice. Anyone could write one. Or could they?

Along the way, a few acquaintances asked me to read their books. One worked at a place where I used to . . . I never minded doing the favor. I was also asked to blurb a few. And some of the characters, to me, were just a list of traits. 20-something, works in an ad agency, mother is a shrew, boyfriend can't commit. These were women defined through the eyes of OTHERS. (I.e., defined by a boyfriend who can't commit as a TRAIT, as a CONFLICT), versus themselves. I think one of the more "unusual" aspects of Spanish Disco was Cassie, the heroine, was afraid to commit for a far more existential reason than most chick lit. And it was HER trait. Not the trait of the men defining her. They didn't define her. SHE defined her.

The other thing I noticed in some of these manuscripts, was the traits weren't carried all the way through. Being a model isn't a trait. Being a bride isn't a trait. Being insecure because you're defined by your beauty IS a trait. Fearing a wedding because you never got over the one that got away . . . trait. Even more so, the quirks and nuances weren't there. Maybe it was the rush to write a book on the cusp of a trend, or not learning craft because it "seemed" so easy. Last night, I was telling a writer friend about my chicken.

No, I don't have a chicken. But I DO have a chicken cookie jar. It's the singularly most ridiculous cookie jar in the world. If I get around to it, I will snap a picture and post it. My chicken has a beret and a blue checkered suit vest on. And my chicken cookie jar belonged to my grandma. Because I loved her so much, I don't want anything to HAPPEN to the cookie jar (like a Demon Baby). So my chicken sits on a BOOKSHELF and contains spare cash, poker change at times, and occasionally Chinese herbs from my acupuncturist. But that ONE cookie jar can tell you so much about me. Because of who it belonged to and what she meant to me. I'm not cardboard. I'm real as hell.

So all these years later, I think I'm beginning to know what's cardboard. And what's flesh and blood. At least I hope so.

Thoughts?

I Wrote a Book and I Fell in Love

Occupational hazard.

For writers, it's generally a good sign if they cry while writing a particularly poignant scene. In Freudian Slip, my next Red Dress Ink title, at a key moment when Julian makes a courageous but heartbreaking choice, I literally wept. For two days afterward, I didn't really want to eat . . . had trouble sleeping.

If I laugh out loud at certain parts in my comedies . . . it's a good sign. If I find that I am smiling when I am writing, it means I am onto something.

I have felt a physical ache for some of my characters. In The Roofer, when I wrote the scene when Tom and Ava rode the subway as teens, observing "normal" families, knowing (as only the writer would know) what was shortly going to happen to Tom, I felt a real pang.

And while working on a children's book of all things, I have fallen in love with the cousin character. He's Russian and he kind of looks like the model above. He's arrogant and charming and brilliant. And he's threatening to overtake the book, which is something I have to guard against--he's just that clever.

And I am convinced only other writers "get" this phenomenon, wherein your characters are so developed, or your story is so real to you, that they intrude on your real life. They become so real that they butt into parts of your book you don't want them in. So real they can make you cry knowing their fate.

Writing? Or mental illness?

I wrote a book and I fell in love. Happen to anyone else?