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The Driving Force

About every other day, I open up my novel manuscript, tinker away on my laptop and try to mold “draft one” into a much better “draft two.”

The rewrite has been slow. On the days I ignore it, I wonder if my refusal to open the file reflects my lack of faith in the story or my lack of faith in my writing.

Some days it’s the story, other days it’s my writing, on a bad day it’s both.

Recently, however, I sat down with my ego and explained in no uncertain terms that finishing the novel can be as rewarding as having it published. Amazing things happen when you let go of expectations. The story starts to flow again. I wrote over 1,400 words today, finished chapter three, and rekindled my love for the characters.

In between rewrites this week, I published a post that I consider an exercise in character development – the main character in my novel, not my personal character (unless you count that chat with my ego as “development”). I also found a great article on character-driven stories versus plot-driven stories, something I understood but needed to see again more clearly.

Elana Johnson breaks down plot versus character in an essay she posted on QueryTracker.net (you can read her post here). She says, “[t]he main focus in a plot-driven novel [is]: get out of danger. Stay alive. Accomplish something.” In a character-driven story, the protagonist – how she sees the world or how her perceptions change – is more important than the action:

“In a character-driven story, the author builds the plot around the character.”

Both character and plot interact, but one of them takes the lead. Elana Johnson ends with several questions to help determine which one the writer puts first. Question number one speaks directly to me:

“What is the force propelling your story from beginning to end? Is it the characters or what they’re going through?”

My answer to that question (the characters) sealed my understanding about the story I am writing. And, I learned that even if my fingers aren’t typing in draft changes, I am still developing the story: every article I read on the craft of writing adds meaning to my work in progress.

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Big Mouth Bass

Today’s Wednesday’s Word entry comes to you as a result of Jamie Grove’s suggestion in a recent post on what to do when you don’t feel like writing: put A to B. Get thy butt to thy chair, and write anyway.

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The theme this week on Wordsmith.org is eponyms: words based on a person’s name. You have to be famous and/or do something really ingenious for your name to become part of the English language. For some odd reason, Wordsmith.org doesn’t acknowledge any eponym related to me. Clearly they don’t know the story of how I became a Lion’s Club member, even though I’m a woman. I only stayed in for a year, and it might be a figment of my imagination (or a nightmare), but still….

However, the name André Maginot comes into focus with today’s word of the day:

Maginot line. noun. An ineffective line of defense that is relied upon with undue confidence.

You can read about André Maginot here, and learn how his great line of defense fell short in actual protection.

Now, on to some flash fiction.

You may not know Millie. She is the main character in the novel I mention when I talk about how much I love rewrites. Millie lives alone, and she likes it that way, for the most part. She requires a large cushion of personal space, for sanitary reasons and because of her suspicion of most people. She prefers to observe life from a distance, behind a window or behind a desk or in the shadows. Over the phone, she is amicable; in person, quiet or curt.  Today, I imagine Millie and the Maginot line.

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Millie’s best line of defense lay in tight formation along the top edge of her place mat. As she tore off bite-size pieces off her bran muffin and chewed, with purpose, she studied each pill: fish oil,vitamin E, vitamin D, and (the catch-all) Mega-Mix Iron Supplement – iron complemented with vitamins C and B12, a dash of Folic Acid and a pinch of Copper. The Mega-Mix, her mother insisted, would boost her energy and give a little color to her cheeks.

The Mega-Mix pill was the same color and length as her mother’s manicured nails, the one on her index finger to be exact. The image of her mother’s nail, in bright corral polish, pointing to and tapping the vitamin brochure, was fresh in Millie’s mind.

“You need all of these, Millie,” her mother said as she ran her finger down a list of vitamins for women over forty.

“I’m thirty-nine, mother.”

“You can never start too early. Besides, you’re pale as a ghost and you sleep too much. Get this one for sure,” she tapped over the picture of the Mega-Mix.

The vitamins came in the mail yesterday. Millie hadn’t opened them until this morning. Now, studying the Mega-Mix pill on the table, she saw it had the thickness of a marble. She was worried. She had a high gag reflex. The other three vitamins would be hard enough. She decided to take the Mega-Mix last.

She took a deep breath. Her right hand scooped up the fish oil and, like a catapult, shot it into her open mouth. Her left hand swung from the side and grasped her water glass. She flooded her mouth, so that the pill floated for a brief second. Then, she tossed her head back as if she were in a fit of laughter and swallowed, forcing the pill down her esophagus in one strong gulp. She repeated the process two more times then paused at the Mega-Mix.

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Finding My Groove, Keeping my Rhythm

When I stepped out onto the dance floor last week, I knew there would be trouble. I hadn’t danced in years, so I was completely out of practice in the art letting loose.

Through the fog and colored lights, I eyed up the DJ: young, serious, mohawk. I saw him survey the crowd. Then, he scratched out a song I didn’t know. Even before moving an inch, I began to perspire.

I could have used a drink, but the hardest liquor to slide across the bar that night was a regular Mountain Dew, straight up. I was left to my own non-rhythmic devices. I started at the hips. Left, left, right. Right, right, left. I pivoted my toes in an effort to twist into the beat, but my groove was stopped short by my boots and their rubber soles.

Note to self: a non-slip sole crushes all dignity when dancing.

The dance floor filled up with younger, looser-hipped bodies. My eyes widened, my shoulders stiffened, and I smiled as if I were in pain. I limited my dance moves to two square feet of space, hoping not to be noticed. But as each arm locked into an L-position and alternated from front to back, my hips jolted. I danced the Robot without any intention of doing so.

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