Do I Know You?

With me, pretty much what you see (exhausted mom of four, writer, odd around the edges) is what you get. I don't like small talk. I prefer to keep to myself, but I have very, very close friends that mean everything to me. Family is my number-one priority. Then my prayer life. Then my volunteering life. Then writing. Sometimes the order of the last two shuffles, but not much.

I wear my (typically bleeding) heart on my sleeve. If I want to cry, I don't care who sees me. If I am in a silly mood, I don't care if I am out in public. I am always the first person out on the dance floor at a wedding.

Baby Girl and I went out for dinner. She had given me the most glorious Mother's Day card (hand-painted by her) with an essay inside on why her mom is so special. Suffice it to say, virtually every sentence had some form of the following: "My mom is very different from most moms, and that's part of why I love her so much." "My mom is kind of crazy a lot of the time, but if you know her, that's why you'd love her." So at dinner, I asked her, "Why did your whole essay resound with 'my mom is weird.'" To which she replied, "Have you met yourself?" I asked if she wanted a normal mom. To which she replied, "No, I'll keep you." Which was gratifying, since she is rather stuck with me.


But in the end, Baby Girl's essay aside, I feel I am unknowable. There is so much pain and joy and heartache, and thoughts and prayer way, way beneath the surface. I don't feel that anyone knows me fully. And I feel that way about most people. We spend our lives trying to connect with people, but in the end, do we REALLY know them?


Which brings me to my work-in-progress. I have a couple of characters that I "get." I see them, feel them. In my mind, I see him brush a stray piece of hair from her face. I see her pausing to watch him before he knows she's there. I feel their breaths. But there--off-stage for now--is her domineering, mean father. Him, I don't know. It's not that I can't write him. I think I can. But I don't know what motivates him. I don't KNOW him. I can't wrap my mind around him. And while I don't have Writer's Block* (see end of post), THIS is a block that is holding up my work. I don't get him.

At one point, a certain member of my writers' group and I would have rather large disagreements about one of his characters. I think he felt he knew this character . . . and I didn't. Because it's not my work--I know to a very large extent he was right. On the flipside, we're trying to make our characters knowable--not just to us, but to our readers.

I also realize that the MAIN reason I don't know this character in my work-in-progress is I have no idea what motivates him. What makes him get out bed in the morning. What jerks his proverbial chain. For me, I get out of bed for the coffee brewing, for the chance to see Demon Baby with the peace of sleep on his face. I get up for my kids because I know if I am not "motivating" them out the door, their days will be a mess and spill back onto my day. I get up because loads of laundry are waiting to get done. I get up to blog and "see" all of you. I get up to pray.


So . . . are we knowable? Is what we know the EVIDENCE of our existence? Am I knowable only by what I do? Where I choose to spend my time? Are your characters knowable? And what obligation do you have to your readers to make them knowable?


Discuss. :-)


*My Writer's Block asterisk? I read the NY papers in the morning. James Frey made Page Six of the New York Post with this comment: JAMES Frey made his triumphant return to the literary limelight Tuesday night at the Blender Theater, where he walked through his adoring fans flanked by two huge body-builders and took the stage to read from his first novel, "Bright Shiny Morning." As jazz pianist Eric Lewis played, Frey read a passage about LA's gun culture under a slide show of Terry Richardson photographs of tattooed, heavily armed gang members. Asked if he'd suffered any droughts of inspiration during his 10 months of typing, Frey replied, "Writer's block is for chumps. To me this is a job, like being a banker, or a teacher. You never hear of banker's block."

To which I wanted to hurl my computer. I think the man is a jackass.

Dr. Orloff

The flag is a show of solidarity for the protesters today. Think peace.



And onto the post.



Writer's block is, I suppose, an occupational hazard for a novelist. I've never gotten writer's block (knock wood). But I have had days when I sat down to write and just felt . . . uninspired. Unlike some writers, I usually just knock off for the day. I am firmly convinced a real writers' block comes from pressuring yourself until your brain explodes. Okay, so that doesn't entirely sound medical. But . . . that's what Dr. Orloff says today. Your brain could explode.

Moving on in my exploration of the writer's health, there are other persistent writing conditions. Anyone else get a twitch in their eye? My right one (yes, the one that got smashed when I fell) . . . is persistently unhappy today. A little twitch from tiredness and reading and writing too many words. I've gotten twitches for years. I just read too much for my own good. Dr. Orloff has no prescription for that because she knows . . . reading IS my medicine, so suck it up.

Carpal tunnel anyone? I get that a tiny bit. Not too much. Tight neck? Oh, I get that.

Numb butt. Sure. There's a whole syndrome, you know. Writer's Ass. Numb . . . and spreading from sitting too much and exercising too little.

I get heartburn from too much coffee. Dr. Orloff had recommended giving it up for green tea. I successfully did for a year. Then my dad came at Christmas, was hospitalized. Daughter was sick. I had deadlines. I went back to coffee and haven't yet bitten the bullet and given it up. I know what awaits me. Headaches. My eyelashes even hurt last time I gave it up. Frankly, I can't deal with hurting eyelashes right now.


I've been known to fall asleep sitting up when I'm writing late at night. That can't be good. Dr. Orloff says get up to bed and have a restful night's sleep. Oh, and send Demon Baby to boarding school so that's possible. Thus, Dr. Orloff knows . . . it is what it is.

Eating? Bowls of rice at my desk, but I honestly should STOP and take a walk, and eat a peaceful meal. Mindfully.

There's no hazard pay for writers. But maybe there should be.

So . . . any of these writing conditions? Tell Dr. Orloff.

A Quote to Invite . . .

. . . a fight. Perhaps.

In fact, when I found this quote, by one of my favorite writers, I laughed out loud. And I realized, amongst my writer-pals, that we are probably going to fall into one of two camps. One that believes in it . . . and one that doesn't. Ready?

There's no such thing as writer's block. That was invented by people in California who couldn't write.
Terry Pratchett

I love it.

Not the least of the reasons why I love it is he and Neil Gaiman wrote one of my top-ten favorite books--Good Omens. No, I like it because I have to be honest, I've never had writer's block. But I have had months when all I wrote was crap.

There's a difference. I've had weeks where my output was so minimal, and most of it got deleted. I've had weeks when I felt pretty stuck. But those weeks I often worked the hardest--going off alone and trying to figure out how I was going to write myself out of the mess I was in.

But I've never been at a loss for what to write. Blocked. Unable to write.

I've had Demon Baby Weeks from Hell, and weeks on the Infectious Disease Ward. Last week? ZERO output. And oh yes, I have the stomach flu today. Caught from daughter. That sound you hear? Don't even ask. Yesterday was not fun. Today promises to be no better--I may be years from childhood, but I still hate throwing up as if I was four years old. HATE it. But I digress. Demon Baby Weeks and throwing up . . . that entire month with child number two lost to morning sickness . . . that's not writer's block.

So no, I've never had it. It makes, I have to say, for dramatic scenes of writers when they are depicted in the MOVIES. But I've never had it. I've had a friend or two claim to have it. But does it exist?

So weigh in . . . I'll lift my glass of ginger ale here and try to keep from heaving as you do.

Cheers,
E