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Reflecting Life in Our Writing

I am never disappointed in The Writer magazine. True to form, when I paged through my December issue this month, I read another article that struck a chord at exactly the right moment.

I am finally – and seriously – back to work on my novel in progress, so much so that I named this draft “Signs of Life, for real this time.” It’s a story about a young woman named Gale, who’s mother is killed, and in losing family, Gale finds family – and forgiveness. I want to write this story with enough emotion but not too much, which has been one reason for procrastination: I’m afraid the story will read too dark and too heavy. I was relieved, then, to come upon David Harris Ebenbach’s essay in The Writer, “Writing Toward the Light.”

In his essay, Ebenbach focuses only on the short story, but many of his points can be applied to memoirs and novels as well. Ebenbach addresses his long-standing belief that, to be called “great,” a story must focus on “struggle and conflict” and pain. But, as he questions his own ideas and discovers several well-written and well-received stories that highlight a character’s “opportunities” instead of “struggles,” Ebenbach realizes that all writing must embody balance. He says:

“…[T]here’s nothing wrong, of course, with writing about darkness…darkness is a significant part of life. [But], light, of course, is also part of life, and as writers that ought to mean something to us.”

While definitions of literary fiction (like the one on Writer’s Relief, Inc.) say that “[l]iterary fiction tackles ‘big’ issues that are…controversial, difficult, and complex,” I need to remember Ebenbach’s point, that “difficult” in fiction (or memoir, for that matter) doesn’t have to mean all dark, all the time.

As Ebenbach says, “[readers] want to see the real world – in all its richness and complexity – reflected in literature.” And, isn’t that the way life rolls: the serious and the silly taking our focus in turns?

I know about death, about losing a mother, about the heaviness that settles and then hovers for months after. But, I also know about moments that surface during those dark times, moments that propel a person into a fit of laughter when laughter doesn’t seem possible.

Like when an overweight and messy driver ushers a grieving family into the back of a limo and then cruises down the road, from the funeral home to the church, at a high rate of speed. It’s only when he slams on the brakes and tosses the family around like rag dolls that the tension breaks and laughter erupts.

Those kind of moments in life give us a breather from a harsh reality long enough to gather strength; they are the moments that have us rolling on the couch the next day when we’re hung over on emotion.

And, those kinds of moments can turn up for the characters in our stories, as they face struggles, as well.

Ebenbach’s stress on balance in our writing gives me a broader perspective as I tackle more of this new draft, as I rearrange scenes in the novel, add new details, and weave the dark and light of emotion throughout the pages. I can’t throw in a humorous scene for the sake of “a breather” — every scene must still drive the plot forward. Yet, I shouldn’t be afraid to see the lighter side of a character’s life, even a character in pain.

*****

Ebenbach, David Harris. “Writing Toward the Light.” The Writer. December 2010: 15-16. Print.

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Keeping It Short

It’s Wednesday’s Word, and you know what that means: write something – an essay, poem, or flash fiction – based on Wordsmith.org’s word of the day and post it by midnight. Past results from this fun writing exercise can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

~

There’s a lot to be done on the day before Thanksgiving.

Clean the house, tame the laundry, stock up on books and movies from the library. Bake a few pies, wave to the neighbors, watch the sky for signs of snow. Nevermind that it’s Wednesday, and I’m supposed to be writing.

Today’s word from Wordsmith.org:

shamus. noun. 1. A private detective. 2. A police officer

With all that’s going on in the next few days, I’m keeping this short and sweet.


An Eye for Detail

Eddie oozed “Detective.” He stood six feet tall, with broad shoulders. His hair was thick and his stare heavy. He approached everyone with the same suspicious eye.

He’d been studying the skinny kid in the corner of the room for the last ten minutes: the hair was disheveled, the hands shifted in and out of pockets, and the air smelled of stale booze. Eddie moved in.

“Robert McKenny?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” the kid stood up straight. At least the kid had that going for him.

“You were out last night.” Eddie said.

“Yes sir. To a bar. Just until midnight.” He brushed his hair out of his face.

“The bar on Fifth Street?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, yes. Sir.”

Eddie took a step closer to Robert. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No sir!” Robert pressed his back to the wall.

“That shop was robbed twice last month,” Eddie scowled.

“Twice? What? I…no! It wasn’t me!”

Eddie’s wife, Myrna, appeared from around the corner and slapped Eddie on the shoulder.

“Oh, Eddie,” she said, “you act like he’s been brought in for questioning. Let the boy alone. Go make another pot of coffee.”

Myrna hugged Robert and kissed his cheek. “Don’t let your uncle intimidate you, dear. He doesn’t know how to drop the Detective routine.”

She’s too soft, Eddie thought, as he walked into the kitchen. He stood at the sink, with his hands behind his back, and stared out the bay window that faced their back yard. He and Myrna were hosting Thanksgiving this year, and Eddie didn’t like it. He didn’t like the crowd, the small talk, all that gratitude.

He thought maybe a walk outside would do him some good. Just before he turned away from the window, he saw movement. The dried stalks of Myrna’s wildflowers swayed and fell over in succession as something made its way across her garden. The sun was almost out of sight, and the lack of light made it difficult for Eddie to see clearly. He slipped out the back door.

From the patio, he made out the shape of a round mass that inched its way towards the corner of their house. Eddie was glad he decided to wear his moccasins for the family gathering. Myrna had waved him off in disgust when he put them on that morning, calling them “slippers, for crying out loud.” But, Eddie didn’t need formality; he needed stealth.

He slid along the side of the house, around the bay window, and stopped a few feet from the corner. The mass was gray, furry, and it was digging. Myrna won’t like that, Eddie thought. He peered down at the animal and took one more step, one step too many. A stick cracked, the animal turned, and two yellow eyes bored up at him. It hissed and it waddled – too fast – towards Eddie.

He stumbled backwards, turned and ran. Inside, he slammed the back door. He was gasping for breath.

Myrna stood in the back hall with a large knife in one hand and a fork in the other. “Eddie! I was carving the turkey and I heard such a ruckus.” She flipped the light switch with her elbow.

“A monster, Myrna! Rabid!”

“What in Heaven’s name are you talking about, Eddie, and why are you shivering?”

“I was outside. I forgot my jacket.” He held Myrna’s shoulders and whispered, close. “In the garden. I saw it from the window. I stepped outside. It lunged at me.”

Myrna cocked her head. “Here, take these.” She handed him the knife and fork. “Where’s the flashlight?”

“You can’t go out there! Look at you, savory juices dripping from your hands. It’ll eat you alive!”

Myrna marched past him. He poked his head out the door and watched the flashlight beam bounce across the yard. He cupped his hands around his mouth.

“In the corner,” he whispered.

He heard a rustle, then a hiss, and Myrna was back on the patio in a second. She was laughing.

“A badger, Eddie, a badger!” She pushed him inside and shut the door. “Look at you, so frightened. All those people out there have no idea.” She kissed him on the lips and swathed Eddie in mixture of Thanksgiving and comfort.

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Ego throws a mean left hook.

Ego is a funny thing.

Sometimes Ego is my driving force that gives me just enough courage to put my work out there. Other times, Ego whispers something that sends me spinning and knocks me out for a few days.

Several weeks ago, I had my eye on a couple of writing contests. I considered submitting a story I wrote, one that got some good feedback. As I wavered, Ego leaned into my ear and said –  all syrupy and sweet – “Oh, it’s good. Just do it.” She was so encouraging. I clicked “submit.”

Days later, I read a different story to a group of writers, my confidence still inflated. I received some good responses, but those weren’t the ones I heard. What I tuned into was one or two critiques that made me question my writing and myself, and then I focused on Ego’s quiet little whisper that followed.

“I’m not sure why you brought in that story anyway,” she said as we exited the studio. “You know they hated it. In fact, I’m fairly certain they don’t even like you.”

Knock out.

Man, she’s mean.

In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg doesn’t call the problem Ego, but she writes about it just the same. She says “Do not be tossed away by your achievements or your fiascos.”

I have to take my successes for what they are: rewards for hard work done on a story. When I feel good about a story, I can relish the moment, even write a post about it, but I can’t play into a false belief that everything I write from that point forward will be perfect.

Then again, as Goldberg says, I can’t let my failures drain me either.

See beyond [doubt] to the vastness of life and the belief in time and practice. Write something else. Let go of your failures and sit down and write something great. Or write something terrible and feel great about it.

The problem with Ego is that, whether the words I hear are praise or a put-down, it’s always all about me. And, when I’m all into me, I’m not into writing. The best way to avoid that pitfall is to take Natalie Goldberg’s advice: Write something else. Through successes and failures, just write.

How do I do that?

1. I Keep it short. If I’m writing a short story or a first chapter (or if I’m knee-deep in a 50,000 word first draft), I don’t want to get stuck on perfecting one scene. I keep it short, get the first draft done, and then share it with writers who know what they’re doing. I can trust that a good roundtable session will help me filter through the parts that need more expansion and bump the sections that don’t belong.

2. I Pull out something old and rework it. I hate looking back, which doesn’t make for easy rewrites. But, after spending some time learning the craft, I might pull out an old story and apply some of those new techniques. That’s the best time to see how far I’ve come in my writing.

3. I Enjoy the process. This is especially important when I’m working through early drafts of a piece. Sometimes a whole page of writing reveals only one gem, but that gem may turn out to be the crux of my story. In a feedback session, I might hear the one suggestion that clears up the whole picture for me and brings that story into focus.

I love Jody Hedlund’s final comment in one of her recent posts, because it speaks to my struggle as well:

Perfection is unattainable. We need to guard against thinking we’re already close to perfect. And we need to guard against thinking we need to be perfect. Instead, we can begin to develop a quiet confidence in our writing abilities—seeing how far we’ve come, but knowing we still have room to grow.

So, whatever Ego mumbles in my ear today, I know what I have to do. Write.
Or, rewrite.
Whatever it takes.

Because, Ego isn’t going away.

*****

Goldberg, Natalie. Writing Down the Bones. Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications, Inc., 1986. Print.

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