Where the Wild Ideas Are

Today's chain question comes from Shaun whose book, The Deathday Letter, you can (and should) buy right now just by clicking this link. Just think of it. That little purchasing high after clicking the buy button. And then the pleasure of knowing something will soon arrive in your mailbox that isn't a bill or an annoying advertisement for something you don't want. And on top of all that - you also get an awesome book. Win, win, win.

Okay, and now on to the question.

From where do you get your inspiration for stories? Give me the oddest, coolest, things that have inspired you.

Usually I start with a character as my jumping off point. My first novel had a heroine who was a telemarketer - a position I know personally and painfully well after a three month stint the summer before my freshman year of college.

My urban fantasy started with the idea of a main character who stole people's identities, and when she steals the wrong person's (or creature in this case - that's where the whole fantasy part comes in) identity, and people believe she actually is that person... well wackiness ensues. I think I was partially inspired by those great Citibank commercials about identity theft.



In the end that character changed while I was writing and I dropped the whole identity theft angle altogether, which is how it often happens for me. I'll start at one place, and end up in a completely different one once the story gets going and takes over things.

What about you - where do your ideas come from?

And for more blog chain goodness check out Shannon before me and Amanda directly after!

Motivation

I'm last in line this time on the blog chain, which is actually a pretty great place to be, because I get to read all the excellent responses of all the amazing writers who came before (with Shannon over at daily pie directly before me - definitely check it out.). Amanda brought us our latest question, and from what I have read it seems to be a question that is incredibly relevant to every writer's life:

What do you do to keep yourself motivated when you feel like you're not making any progress in your writing career?

Sitting down and stringing a story together word by painstaking word is not backbreaking labor, but it is hard. There are so many distractions and so many other things that are so much easier to do - like surfing the Internet, or reading a book, or watching TV, or picking your nose. I can - and have - burned away hours where I meant to be writing, but first I need to check out that shoe sale online or have a little Gmail chat and then - oops - the kids are crying, nap time is over, and the window has closed.

Honestly, for me, motivation boils down to two things.

One is habit. I always find it easier to sit down to write when I get into a daily routine. And I always find it more difficult after any extended break - whether that be weeks or days - to get back into it.

Two is how I make myself get back into it after those extended breaks. And how I do that is... well, it's the same way that I make myself climb onto the elliptical and sweat through thirty minutes of either the "cardio" or "fatburn" program three times a week. Or the same way that I make myself walk on by the Little Debbie and Krispy Kreme displays in the grocery store.

Okay, yes, just like sometimes I can't find the motivation to write, I also sometimes can't find the motivation to exercise or to resist the lure of mass-produced baked goods. But most of the time I do, and that's because I remind myself that denial of what I want in the now, will lead to greater rewards in the later. And whether that reward is being able to fit into my jeans or having a writing career - it all comes down to listening to that internal drill instructor.

You know what? I just realized there is a third part to staying motivated. I find that motivation goes hand in hand with inspiration. Now this doesn't mean I only write when the writing fairy comes and sprinkles her magical idea dust over me. No, that writing fairy is a fickle little witch. No, the inspiration I'm talking about is when you read something that reaches all the way inside of you and just kind of shakes you fully awake. It takes you inside and out of yourself all in the same moment.

I've recently come across two poems that gave me this feeling, and although they are both a bit long I want to post them both here. Maybe they''ll give you a little shake too.

The first poem was written by a man who was permanently paralyzed at age 12 by a bicycle accident. He has also written a memoir, "One More Theory About Happiness" which you can read an excerpt of here.

User's Guide To Physical Debilitation

From 'My Index of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge'

by Paul Guest

Should the painful condition of irreversible paralysis
last longer than forever or at least until
your death by bowling ball or illegal lawn dart
or the culture of death, which really has it out
for whoever has seen better days
but still enjoys bruising marathons of bird watching,
you, or your beleaguered caregiver
stirring dark witch's brews of resentment
inside what had been her happy life,
should turn to page seven where you can learn,
assuming higher cognitive functions
were not pureed by your selfish misfortune,
how to leave the house for the first time in two years.
An important first step,
with apologies for the thoughtlessly thoughtless metaphor.
When not an outright impossibility
or form of neurological science fiction,
sexual congress will either be with
tourists in the kingdom of your tragedy,
performing an act of sadistic charity;
with the curious, for whom you will be beguilingly blank canvas;
or with someone blindly feeling their way
through an extended power outage
caused by summer storms you once thought romantic.
Page twelve instructs you how best
to be inspiring to Magnus next door
as he throws old Volkswagens into orbit
above Alberta. And to Betty
in her dark charm confiding a misery,
whatever it is, that to her seems equivalent to yours.
The curl of her hair that her finger knows
better and beyond what you will,
even in the hypothesis of heaven
when you sleep. This guide is intended
to prepare you for falling down
and declaring detente with gravity,
else you reach the inevitable end
of scaring small children by your presence alone.
Someone once said of crushing
helplessness: it is a good idea to avoid that.
We agree with that wisdom
but gleaming motorcycles are hard
to turn down or safely stop
at speeds which melt aluminum. Of special note
are sections regarding faith
healing, self-loathing, abstract hobbies
like theoretical spelunking and extreme atrophy,
and what to say to loved ones
who won't stop shrieking
at Christmas dinner. New to this edition
is an index of important terms
such as catheter, pain, blackout,
pathological deltoid obsession, escort service,
magnetic resonance imaging,
loss of friends due to superstitious fear,
and, of course, amputation
above the knee due to pernicious gangrene.
It is our hope that this guide
will be a valuable resource
during this long stretch of boredom and dread
and that it may be of some help,
however small, to cope with your new life
and the gradual, bittersweet loss
of every God damned thing you ever loved.



David Rakoff's "Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace"

from This American Life #389: Frenemies. (I actually heard this before reading it, and hearing it read aloud was amazing - totally worth downloading the program on ITunes just to have a listen.)

Nathan, at one of the outlying tables,

his feet tangled up in the disk jockey's cables,

surveyed the room as unseen as a ghost

while he mulled over what he might say for his toast.

That the couple had asked him for this benediction

seemed at odds with them parking him here by the kitchen.

That he turned up at all was still a surprise,

and not just to him, it was there in the eyes

of the guests who had seen the mirage and drew near

and then covered their shock with a "Nathan, you're here.."

and then, silence, they had nothing to say beyond that.

A few of the braver souls lingered to chat.

They all knew...

It was neither a secret nor mystery

that he and the couple had quite an odd history.

Their bonds were a tangle of friendship and sex.

Josh, his best pal once, and Patty, his ex.

For awhile he could barely go out in the city

without being a punchline or object of pity.

"Poor Nathan" had virtually become his new name.

And so he showed up, just to show he was game,

though, his invite was late, a forgotten addendum.

For Nate, there could be no more clear referendum

that he need but endure through this evening and then

He would likely not see Josh and Patty again.

Josh's sister was speaking, a princess in peach.

Nathan dug in his pocket to study his speech.

He'd pored over bartlets for couplets to filch,

he'd stayed up until three, still came up with zilch,

except for instructions he'd underscored twice,

just two words in length and those words were: "Be Nice"

Too often, he thought, our emotions betray us

and reason departs once we're up on the dais.

He'd witnessed uncomfortable moments where others had lost their way quickly,

where sisters and brothers had gotten too prickly,

and peppered their babbling

with stories of benders,or lesbian dabbling,

or spot-on impressions of mothers-in-law,

which, True, Nathan thought, always garnered guffaws

but the price seemed too high, with the laughs seldom cloaking

hostility masquerading as joking.

No, he'd swallow his rage and he'd bank all his fire,

he knew that in his case, the bar was set higher.

Folks were just waiting for him to erupt.

They'd be hungry for blood even though they had supped.

They'd want tears or some other unsightly reaction

and Nathan would not give them that satisfaction.

Though Patty, a harlot, and Josh was a lout,

At least Nathan knew what he'd not talk about.

"I won't wish them divorce, that they wither and sicken

or tonight that they choke on their salmon or chicken.

I won't mention that time when the cottage lost power

in that storm on the cape and they left for an hour.

And they thought it was just the cleverest ruse

to pretend it took that long to reset the fuse.

Or that time Josh advised me with so much insistence

that I should grant Patty a little more distance.

That the worst I could do was to hamper and crowd her

that if Patty felt stifled, she'd just take a powder.

That a plant needs its space just as much as its water.

and that I shouldn't give Patty that ring that I bought her.

Which, in retrospect only elicits a 'Gosh,

I hardly deserved a friend like you, Josh'.

No, I won't spill those beans or make myself foolish

to satisfy appetites venal and ghoulish.

I will not be the blot on this hellish affair."

And with that, Nathan pushed out and rose from his chair.

and just by the tapping of knife against crystal,

all eyes turned his way, like he'd fired off a pistol.

"Mmmhmm, Joshua, Patricia, dear family and friends,

A few words, if you will, before everything ends.

You've promised to honor, to love and obey.

We've quaffed our champagne and been cleansed by sorbet,

all in endorsement of your ‘hers and his-dom’.

So now let me add my two cents worth of wisdom.

I was racking my brain sitting here at this table,

until I remembered this suitable fable

that gets at a truth, though it may well distort us,

so herewith the tale of the scorpion and tortoise:

The scorpion was hamstrung, his tail all aquiver;

just how would he manage to get across the river?

“The water’s so deep,” he observed with a sigh,

which pricked at the ears of the tortoise nearby.

“Well why don’t you swim?” asked the slow-moving fellow,

“unless you’re afraid. I mean, what are you, yellow?”

“It isn’t a matter of fear or of whim,”

said the scorpion,

“but that i don’t know how to swim.”

“Ah, forgive me. I didn’t mean to be glib when

i said that. I figured you were an amphibian.”

“No offense taken,” the scorpion replied,

“but how about you help me to reach the far side?

You swim like a dream, and you have what I lack.

Let’s say you take me across on your back?”

“I’m really not sure that’s the best thing to do,”

said the tortoise, “now that i see that it’s you.

You’ve a less than ideal reputation preceding:

there’s talk of your victims all poisoned and bleeding.

You’re the scorpion — and how can I say this — but, well,

I just don’t feel safe with you riding my shell.”

The scorpion replied, “What would killing you prove?

We’d both drown, so tell me: how would that behoove

me to basically die at my very own hand

when all I desire is to be on dry land?”

The tortoise considered the scorpion’s defense.

When he gave it some thought, it made perfect sense.

The niggling voice in his mind he ignored,

and he swam to the bank and called out: “Climb aboard!”

But just a few moments from when they set sail,

the scorpion lashed out with his venomous tail.

The tortoise too late understood that he’d blundered

when he felt his flesh stabbed and his carapace sundered.

As he fought for his life, he said, “tell me why

you have done this! For now we will surely both die!”

“I don’t know!” cried the scorpion. “You never should trust

a creature like me because poison I must!

I’d claim some remorse or at least some compunction,

but I just can’t help it; my form is my function.

You thought I’d behave like my cousin, the crab,

but unlike him, it is but my nature to stab.”

The tortoise expired with one final quiver.

And then both of them sank, swallowed up by the river.

The tortoise was wrong to ignore all his doubts —

because in the end, friends, our natures will out.

So: what can we learn from their watery ends?

Is there some lesson on how to be friends?

I think what it means is that central to living

a life that is good is a life that’s forgiving.

We’re creatures of contact, regardless of whether

we kiss or we wound. Still, we must come together.

Though it may spell destruction, we still ask for more —

since it beats staying dry but so lonely on shore.

So we make ourselves open while knowing full well

it’s essentially saying, “please, come pierce my shell.”

Sorry about wonky formatting - anytime I try to copy and paste into blogger it is a complete mess.

And to end this very long post - a question - How do you stay motivated?

Authorial Influences

Christine provided the question for our latest round of the blog chain and here it is:

“Which author or authors have most influenced your writing and how?”

I've been thinking about how to answer this question for several days now, and to be honest I was having some trouble with it. Instead of having the names of authors, and titles of different books floating around inside my skull there was this:

It seems no one can help me now / I'm in too deep there's no way out/ This time I have really led myself astray/

Runaway train never going back/ Wrong way on a one way track/ Seems like I should be getting somewhere/Somehow I'm neither here nor there

If you were a teenager in the 90's then surely you must at this point be - if not singing, then at least humming along - to Soul Asylum's hit song "Runaway Train". To say that I loved this song (actually the whole cassette - yes, I was slow to jump on the whole CD bandwagon - was in constant rotation along with Stone Temple Pilots and 4 Non Blondes) would be a misstating the case entirely. To say that this song expressed all of my teen angst in a sing-alongable format would be much more accurate and to the point.

Of course, having just turned 31, my teen angst years are pretty far behind me and it's been well over a decade since I've even seen that Soul Asylum cassette. However, a few weeks back I was listening to one of those "the best of the 80's, 90s, and today" radio stations and guess what song they started playing?

Thank goodness my children are not yet old enough to understand that their mother is a terribly painfully horribly embarrassing person, because I sang along with that song and every word came right back to me from where ever they had been hiding out in some far recesses of my brain for all of these years.

I know, I know - what does this have to do with books? Or the question? Or anything at all?

I'm getting there.

You see, ever since I became seriously addicted to books (which was somewhere during first grade, I think) I also became a big fan of the library. At least once a week I was at the library, returning one giant stack of books in exchange for another. And because of how fast I went through books, and because the books were returned instead of placed on a bookshelf in my house as a physical reminder, and because I just have a sort of crappy memory - well, I often forget the name of the book, or forget the name of the author, or forget the character's names, or forget the minor plot details, or forget the major plot details.

Usually I recall something though - my brain isn't entirely made of mush - and some essential detail would stick with me.

Like the book where the girl joined a band and she had this tense relationship with the main guy in the group and he made her shave her head and then she destroyed his toy train while on stage and while out of context those details make absolutely no sense at all, I remember really loving this book.

I have tons of half-remembered books like this. And then there are all the series books - Sweet Valley High, Babysitter's Club, RL Stine. Or the authors like Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume where I ripped through every book they had written. And then I got older and tore through every Mary Higgins Clark, Judith Krantz, and Sidney Sheldon on my Grandma's shelves. Then there was the required reading in high school and college and all the books I've read as an adult.

If you took all those books together it would kind of be like that picture at the top of this post. Layers of rock, all smooshed together so tightly that they all blend together. And I am constantly reading (Still mostly thanks to the public library system. Love you libraries!) and adding more layers. It's easiest for me to remember the books that make up those top layers, but the ones forming those bedrock layers are still important because even though they may be mostly forgotten, who knows when some small detail might come at me out of nowhere - just like a runaway train.

And now that I've brought this train full circle, I think it's time to hand things off to the rest of the blog chain. So make sure to check out Laura's post from yesterday and then tomorrow find out what authors have influenced Shaun.

Creating Mini-Me

Our blog chain topic for today started with Sandra who asked:

Have you ever created a character different from yourself in some significant way, such as (but not limited to) different gender, race, ethnic group, religion, or sexual orientation? If so, what, if any, research did you do to portray these differences? Was this character a main character, secondary character, or walk-on? Did these differences have an impact on the story?

I am towards the end of the chain this time around, and WOW there have been some really good responses from some of my fellow chain bloggers (you can easily read them all by starting with the link to Sandra's blog above and then just following the links straight through from one to the next). Mostly I am impressed by how fearless so many writers are in tackling characters who are completely difference from themselves - difference sex, nationality, race - they have done it all. In fact, one of the two themes that's been repeated is: be brave. The other main idea that I picked up on, was to also be true to the characters in your head by listening to them and letting them be whoever or whatever they are.

Yeah, I know, it kind of sounds like the same advice your mom gave you in junior high, and you were all like, "Yeah, okay whatever, Mom. Now buy me the same shoes that everyone else wears so I don't look like a freak." Of course, I usually didn't get the shoes. And even when I did get the shoes, I didn't have the equally essential fifty dollar sweatshirt from The Limited (Yes, I specifically remember this item of clothing. Actually, it was a whole line of sweatshirts, that if I recall correctly, had a sort of Graffiti-esque type writing across the front done in a Golden Girls color palate. Seriously, what pre-teen girl wouldn't want that sweatshirt? It would have looked totally rocking with my red glasses. Alas, as one of five kids that was a bit out of our budget, but my older sister had a friend who was an only childhood and she owned a whole pile of them. We thought she was the luckiest person on the planet - not counting my older sister's other friend who was also an only child and her mother packed her the BEST lunches ever. Like slices of cheesecake for dessert kind of lunches. Meanwhile we got the generic version of Oreos.) to complete the outfit so it didn't look quite right anyway.

Long tangent. I know. Except it's not a tangent. Really, I swear, I'm not using my blog for public therapy sessions. Okay, maybe I am a little bit - but that doesn't change the fact that I also actually have a point here, and I am getting to it right now.

POINT: The characters I write don't necessarily look like me, act like me, or live like me - but at their core they are created from my experiences and in some essential way reflect my point of view and the way I see the world.

In other words they are underdogs, screw-ups, and dreamers. They might not always win, but they put up a good fight. And yes, sometimes they have terrible fashion sense.

What about you - when you write do you like to create mini-me's or do you try to break the mold?

Make sure to check out the post before mine from Shannon - one of our new blog chain members. And tomorrow Amanda will be finishing up this topic!

Who Do I Write For?

It is blog chain time once more, and Michelle has given us a question from the business side of writing, asking:

Do you write for the market or for yourself? Why? Are there times you do both? Or times when you've written something specifically because it was "hot" at the moment? If so, how did it turn out?

And my answer is, "Uh-uh, huh, of course, I don't never always do that."

Now why am I answering with all the straightforwardness of a politician trying to skirt the latest scandal? I guess because I feel like this is one of those questions where if you say, "Yes, I write for the market" then you look like you are completely lacking in artistic integrity and are writing some pale sad insipid poorly disguised carbon copy of Davinci Code, Harry Potter, Twilight, or some other bestseller.

On the other hand, if you write for yourself than you paint the picture of the tortured artist, sitting in a coffeehouse (NOT Starbucks, a serious artist would never be seen anywhere so unoriginal), wearing all black and scribbling their novel (written entirely in free verse) into a notebook.

Okay, so neither of these are flattering portraits. Also, none of the writers I know fit into either one of these molds. Therefore - there must be some other in between option, where we are aware of the markets, but also aware of who we are as writers.

I like to think of it in driving terms (and maybe this analogy is occurring to me because I was in a car for 13 hours on Monday driving back to Tennessee after an Easter trip to visit my family in Buffalo. This was on top of the overnight trip last Wednesday that took 11 hours.). The book we're writing and the books we want to write are the road before us. Meanwhile the side-view mirrors let us keep track of the other drivers on the road and what they are up to.

This isn't some sleepy little country road we're driving down either, but a California style freeway with several lanes of traffic. The drivers in those either lanes are other writers. And yes, the sparkly black Hummer stretch limo with Stephanie Meyers hanging out of the moon roof and "woooing" (not a diss, if I was her, I'd be "woooing" too) does draw our attention maybe a moment longer than it should. Still, the majority of our attention is centered on that road before us, while peppered in are those glances at the side-view mirrors, just to keep track of who else is on the road with us, and maybe to see if we need to change direction or move into a different lane.

I would add two screaming children in the backseat into this analogy, but I don't really have anything for them to represent - except a horrifically accurate portrait of my actual life.

So which do you choose: writing for the market, yourself, or some combination of the two?

And to keep following this chain you can find Rebecca before me and Amanda directly after!

Let's Talk about Talking

As promised (or threatened, depending on how you want to look at it) in my last post, today it is my turn to start off the latest round in our blog chain. And the topic I've chosen is dialogue. Or for the Alex Trebec's out there, I'll put it in the form of a question:

What is dialogue?

Okay, that's kind of a big question - let's get more specific here.

Do you enjoy writing dialogue? Do you use a lot of dialogue in your writing (for our purposes "a lot" will be defined as more than a smidge and yet not so much that the quotes key on your computer is completely worn out.)? Do you have example(s) of dialogue you especially enjoyed from something you've read? Do you have example(s) of dialogue from your own writing? What about these examples makes them special?

Please remember to use an opening and closing paragraph and to keep your answer within the confines of the space of one blue book. Ha, ha - no just kidding about that - I'm not trying to write a final exam question here... although you will be graded and it may or may not end up on your permanent record.

Okay, lots of questions here - so lets get started.

Do you enjoy writing dialogue?

Short answer: yes. Long answer: Why yes, I certainly do.

To be honest, dialogue is probably my favorite part of writing (and actually reading too.), and because of this - to also answer the next question - I tend to use quite a bit of dialogue in my own writing. For me, dialogue is not only a great way to convey information and exposition, but it can also reveal so much about your characters.

For my examples I pulled several books from my shelves to get a good sampling of what really works for me.

First, in a totally cheater move, I am using an example from the book, "99 FILM SCENES FOR ACTORS".

STEWARDESS: And what would you like to drink?
SALLY: Do you have any Bloody Mary mix?
STEWARDESS: Yes. (she starts to pour.)
SALLY: No wait. Here's what I want. Regular tomato juice, filled about three quarters, and add a splash of Bloody Mary mix, just a splash, and a little piece of lime, but on the side.
HARRY: The University of Chicago, right?
Sally turns, see Harry, then turns back around.
SALLY: Yes.

This snippet of a scene from "When Harry Met Sally" (you knew that without me telling you, right? I mean their names are right there in the scene.) is so great, because using humor it immediately tells us so much about the type of person Sally is. In fact, this type of micro-ordering that Sally does is so indicative of her personality that it reminds Harry of who she is, even after not having seen her for years.

My next example is from the book "A Girl Named Zippy" by Haven Kimmel. This is actually a memoir, but the dialogue is just so wonderful that I couldn't resist including it.

"Daddy, do you think Edythe knows I ain't really a Christian?"

"Don't say ain't. I don't know. She sees you in church three times a week, doesn't she?"

"Yessir."

Well, I'm guessing that she thinks of herself as a Christian because she's there, so she probably thinks you are because you're there. See what I mean?"

"Even though it ain't true?"

"Don't say ain't. Most people don't care if it's true or not, as long as you're sitting there with your money in your hand for the offering."

"Well, she for sure knows you're not a Christian because you don't even go and pretend."

He racheted a minute, grunted, stopped, and studied. "Oh, Edythe always hated me, even when she and your mom were so thick. And I never liked her, either. She used to call our house and pretend she was going to commit suicide if your mother didn't run over there every evening. One night she called and said she drank a whole bottle of iodine. I knew she didn't, but I called an ambulance and told them that she had, that she would deny it with her dying breath, and that they needed to just go ahead and pump her stomach, and they did."

"You did not!"

"I did. And she never forgave me, either, nasty old bat."

I stood looking at Edythe's yard. PeeDink wouldn't stay out of it, and every day she went hunting him with her rake. I couldn't even imagine how sweet my life would be if someone would just come along and haul that old woman on down the line.

Dad was looking at me. "Are you going to talk to me all day?"

"I might."

"Well, don't. I'm about to lose my temper and start cussing, so go find something to do."

"Okay, then. See ya, Daddy."

"Take care, Zip."

Just typing this scene out made me extra aware of how much information we get from this dialogue. First we see the dynamic between Zippy and her father. His repeated reminder to not say "ain't". Her answering him with the one word "Yessir." And even the way he ends their conversation.

We also get the story about Zippy's father and Edythe, which shows us that as patient as he is with his daughter, he can be less charitable towards other people. There's also some telling details about how his attitude towards religion.

Finally, what I like best is that I just believe this conversation really happened - perhaps it wasn't exactly word for word like this - but I thinks she captured the tone and content of a conversation with her father in a realistic way.

Okay, final example is from a book that I read fairly recently: John Green's "Looking For Alaska". The following excerpt is when the narrator first meets the title character of Alaska.

He knocked once, loudly. Through the door, a voice screamed, "Oh my God come in you short little man because I have the best story."

We walked in. I turned to close the door behind me, and the Colonel shook his head and said, "After seven, you have to leave the door open if you're in a girl's room," but I barely heard him because the hottest girl in all of human history was standing before me in cutoff jeans and a peach tank top. And she was talking over the Colonel, talking loud and fast.

"So first day of summer, I'm in grand old Vine Station with this boy named Justin and we're at his house watching TV on the couch - and mind you, I'm already dating Jake - actually I'm still dating him, miraculously enough, but Justin is a friend of mine from when I was a kid and so we're watching TV and literally chatting about the SATs or something, and Justin puts his arm around me and I think, Oh that's nice, we've been friends for so long and this is totally comfortable, and we're just chatting and then I'm like in the middle of a sentence about analogies or something and like a hawk he reaches down and he honks my boob. HONK. A much-too-firm, two- to three-second HONK. And the first thing I thought was Okay, how do I extricate this claw from my boob before it leaves permanent marks? And the second thing I thought was God, I can't wait to tell Takumi and Colonel."

I love the breathless quality of this excerpt. Before it starts we are told that Alaska is talking "loud and fast" and then the dialogue totally sells this - especially since three quarters of the above paragraph is one long rambling sentence. We also get the sense that Alaska is smart - she casually uses the word "extricate", but she also isn't immune to the typical teenager language of, "I'm like". With both the big words and the teenager slang there is also restraint though - every other word isn't straight from the dictionary, nor are the likes sprinkled in too liberally.

And now for the final part of the question - a sample from my own writing. You know how I said above that I use a lot of dialogue in my writing? Well, that's true, but I still had a difficult time finding an excerpt that made any kind of sense out of context. So, in a somewhat cheatery decision, I am using a scene from a screenplay that I wrote a few years back called, "Home Runnings."

As you might have already guessed from the title it's about a baseball team, and the following scene is the one where the ragtag team comes together - not at try-outs though, but instead, since McKenzie, the new coach, is a one-hit wonder pop star, she is instead holding auditions with the help of her son, Eddie.

INT. O'MALLEY'S BAR - CONTINUOUS

BECKY, 12, a tall, athletic looking girl stands on a "T"
that has been taped to the stage. Her arms are folded.


BECKY
So this is it? The big rebellion?

MCKENZIE
You trying out or not?

Becky stares at them hard.

BECKY
Yeah, I'm trying out.

EDDIE
Name?

BECKY
Becky Thurston.

MCKENZIE
Have you been on a baseball team
before?

BECKY
No, but I've been on the basketball,
lacrosse, field hockey, soccer, and
track teams.

McKenzie and Eddie are impressed.

MCKENZIE
That's great--

BECKY
--I was kicked off all of them for
some "violent, non-sportsman like
behavior" crap.

Eddie's eyes grow round.

EDDIE
In track?

Becky shrugs.

BECKY
You get in my lane, I knock you over.
Simple.

Eddie looks concerned. McKenzie looks down at her pad and
then back up. Now Casey, from the library, is on the "T".

EDDIE
Okay, Casey, do you know what position
you might be interested in playing?
Casey stares at the floor and shrugs.


MCKENZIE
What strengths do you think you might
bring to the team?

Now on the "T" is Kevin, from the arcade.

KEVIN
Sometimes I pretend that I'm really
fast like a cheetah and I can run
Superman fast, like lightning.

He starts to zoom around in a circle in front of the table.

KEVIN (CONT'D)
I'm fast, huh? Can you see me? Can
ya, huh?

Eddie and McKenzie's shoulders sag.

MCKENZIE
Um, Katherine, I see on your, er
resume that you've been a Cheerleader
since you were three, can you tell
me why you now want to switch to
baseball?

KATHERINE, 12, a poised, preppy girl now stands on the "T".

KATHERINE
They chose Stacey, horrible awful
back-stabbing Stacey Engvalls as
head cheerleader this year. She was
my best friend and she turned them
all on me!

McKenzie and Eddie exchange looks of dismay. Joe and Joey,
the two boys from detention stand before them.

JOE
Hey, I'm Joe and this is Joey.

Joey nods.

JOE (CONT'D)
Don't worry, we have the same name
but we're not related or anything.

He laughs at his own lame joke and Joey joins in.

CUT TO:

Becky as she swings an imaginary bat. She watches the
imaginary ball then points to an imaginary out fielder.

BECKY
You catch that ball buddy and it'll
be the last thing you do.

CUT TO:

Casey shakes as she swings an imaginary bat, still looking
at her feet.

CUT TO:

Kevin as he does a monkey imitation.

KEVIN

If I was really a monkey I could
pitch with my feet too. Wanna see?

CUT TO:

Katherine shakes with anger, as tears also form.

KATHERINE
I don't understand it, they loved me
but now they love Stacey... and
they treat me like dirt... how can
they do this to me? I was Little
Miss Lewiston last year!

CUT TO:

Joe and Joey.

JOE
I think we'd be really good at
stealing bases... heh. Get it Joey?

Eddie and McKenzie look thoroughly tired out by this process.

MCKENZIE
Congratulations you made the team.

Becky stares at them hard then points at Eddie and McKenzie.

BECKY
We're gonna kill 'em you guys. I'm
telling you, we're gonna kill.

Casey stares down at the ground and nods her head.

Kevin whoops like a monkey some more.

Joe and Joey look at each other and then charge towards one
another banging their heads together.

Katherine dries her eyes.

KATHERINE
I want to be the team captain.

Since this is the longest blog post in the history of the world ever, I'm not going to tell you what this scene accomplishes, but rather ask you what information you were able to draw from it. And then I'm going to tell you to keep following this blog chain, and to do that you need to head over to Amanda's blog next.

What A Character

It is blog chain time once more, and I am really excited about the question for this round, which came from Eric. He asked:

Do you create characters that are larger-than-life or are your characters more like the average Joe?

Excellent question - right?

So, for as long as I can remember my mother has used the phrase "he/she is a real character" to describe certain people. Now these aren't movie stars or sports heroes, or even the local newscaster but just - you know - regular people that she came across in everyday life. Maybe it would be one of my sister's boyfriends, or a teacher, or a someone she works with - and after meeting them my mom would say, "they're a real character" and I would know exactly what she was talking about. Basically, these are people who are both average Joe's and at the same time larger-than-life.

Okay, so that's a bit of a vague description, but no worries I have some excellent examples of some real life "characters".

The first comes from a commercial posted on YouTube. Not only is this commercial hilarious, but the main guy in it definitely qualifies for my mother's "real character" designation. The best part comes at around 40 seconds in when he opens up and shares some personal details about himself.



My next example of a great character comes from a story that I heard on a "Best of NPR" CD that I borrowed from the library for a road trip. It was so hilarious that when we reached the destination of my parent's house, I had my mom and dad listen to it too.

The story was called Amy's Answering Machine (they have a part 2 as well) and was about this woman whose mother leaves her these insane messages all the time, until the only thing she could do was collect them on a CD and share them with the rest of the world. If you have the time click on the links above and listen yourself, because it is really the delivery that makes these so wonderfully funny because the mother is so completely serious and sincere. Here are some examples of the messages left on Amy's answering machine.

"Amila, I hope you're on your way home. I just heard on the weather there's a big storm headed for New York. On the weather map, they have snowflakes the size of bagels. So if you have to go out, wrap a scarf around your face to protect it because you know there's that man who climbed Mt. Everest and lost his entire nose..."

"Amila, I'm having second thoughts about that little palm-size computer that you bought. You could swallow it and, God forbid, choke... I just read an article about a fellow who lost a tiny cell phone and when he dialed his own number to try and locate it, he heard a ringing sound coming from his dog..."

And I can't totally remember, but I am pretty sure that after my mom listened to the NPR story, she said that Amy's mom sounded like, "a real character."

For my last real life example is the Twitter feed called "shitmydadsays". I am not a big Twitter fan, however I heard about this when I read that it had led to both a book deal and an option for a TV pilot. Yes, the grapes in our house did go a little sour when I first read that, but when I started reading I couldn't deny that this was some funny stuff. The basic story here is that of a 29 year old guy who lives with his dad and just writes down the stuff that he says. Here are some of my favorite lines (I *** out some of the swear words, just because I try to keep this blog at least PG13, so warning if you go to check out the site yourself - the language is a little R rated):

"There's a word for people like that...No, I'm saying, there's a word and I don't know what it is. I'm not being ****ing poetic."

"Pressure? Get married when you want. Your wedding's just one more day in my life I can't wear sweat pants."

"We're out of Grape Nuts... No, what's left is for me. Sorry, I should have said "You're out of Grape Nuts."

"Son, no one gives a shit about all the things your cell phone does. You didn't invent it, you just bought it. Anybody can do that."

"You worry too much. Eat some bacon... What? No, I got no idea if it'll make you feel better, I just made too much bacon."

"My flight lands at 9:30 on Sunday...You want to watch what? What the **** is mad men? I'm a mad man if you don't pick me the hell up."

Okay, I think at this point you all know where I'm going with this, but for those who are just skimming through I'll say it once more: This guy is definitely "what a character" worthy.

All right, so these are all (as far as I can tell) real living people somewhere out there in the universe. But how does the whole "real character" translate into my fictional writing?

Well, basically I just try to write people who if my mom met them she'd say... okay, okay - you know what she would say. This doesn't just apply to my main character, but all of them. I want them to be like someone you could meet in your everyday life, but also someone who if you did meet them you'd remember them and tell other people what a character you'd just met.

Okay, that's it from me, but make sure to check back here next week cause I am starting the next chain and you just know that's gonna be fun. In the meantime though, make sure to check out the rest of this chain. Rebecca was before me and Sandra is coming up next.