shakespearemom

I may be the most anal person in the world when it comes to lists. I get it from my mother, who could not tackle any major project without a list (shopping lists, packing lists when we went on trips, etc.). Yet I have taken it to a whole new level. A few years ago, I began keeping a “list book,” an old blank-paged cloth-covered book, and each day I write out all the things I would like to accomplish that day.

Sound organized? Some have seen the book inadvertently (I keep it with me nearly everywhere I go), and they are immediately impressed. “You are so organized!” they exclaim, but each time I feel embarrassed. Others seem to be able to get all sorts of things done without all these lists. Yet if I don’t write something on the list, it simply doesn’t happen. I even write down meals, although my kids would never let me forget those.

I believe the lists do help, in a variety of ways. First of all, they give me a sense of accomplishment. Without them, I’d tell myself I went the whole day without doing anything. But crossing something off the list shows me I at least did something (even if it was only the three meals that day). Lists also help me not forget to do important things (deposit checks, pay bills, pack special stuff in my daughter’s backpack for school). I find I panic less at night if I can write down stuff for the next day (so I don’t worry about whether I’ll remember it).

Most importantly–and you probably figured this was coming–these lists help me write. I used to set really specific goals for writing: “write five pages,” or “complete chapter seven.” But if I didn’t get that specific goal done, I couldn’t cross it off, and that left me feeling as if I had done nothing (no one ever said I was that logical).

So now I just write out “Write!” And most days I get that done. Sometimes it’s only a few paragraphs, or a sentence. Other days it’s ten pages. A few times I’ve written five chapters. But no matter what I do, I’m still able to cross that item off, and I know I’m just a little closer to my ultimate goal–the “big list” item. If I keep working, someday I will become the writer I dream of being.

So I’ll keep writing the lists. My husband had grown used to it, and most of my friends have, too. Who knows, some day my great grandchildren will look through my lists and see how little I expected out of a day–or how much. I wonder what those lists say about me? Perhaps I’ll never know.

I have found, over the last few years, that I am entranced with fantasy. And I don’t mean dungeons and dragons, magic or wizards (though I like those things, too). I mean that I like to shade the world around me–the stark reality–with the fantastic. I want to believe unseen forces are around me, want to imagine myself to be a mythic player in a mythic world, however mundane my world may be in “real life.”

If I stick to the “real” world around me, I am little more than a wife/mother/dishwasher/cook/housekeeper/errand-runner/aspiring writer. Yet in my fantasy-shaded world, I am on an epic quest, guiding young lives, creating romance, working diligently on writings that will some day change the world. Every line I write is one soft step towards my own enlightenment, and my effect on the world, some day, will be incalculable. I will inspire others some day, and those who trod on me, or discounted my abilities, will be proven wrong.

Okay, so perhaps none of this will happen. Perhaps all my dreams will never come to fruition. But thinking believing I am that powerless–living in the “real world”–isn’t fun at all.

So I hide in my fantasy. And books help me do that. I tend to gravitate away from books based only on reality, biographies, histories, and the like. Even if someone’s life was truly extraordinary, it is rarely as interesting as fantasy (at least, not to me). So my book group is reading a book on great women in American history, and I don’t even want to read it. But I can’t wait until next month, when we are reading a book that is entirely fictional.

I read once (I cannot remember where) that children gravitate to fantasy–fables, fairy tales, etc.–because they use fantasy to illustrate the real world. Real fears of children cannot be expressed, but children are empowered to deal with their real problems when they see knights overcome dragons, princesses released from spells, and other such fantastical situations. Perhaps I am still in my adolescence, and fantasy is my way of dealing with real problems, without the pain of having to see those real problems as all my life is about.

I have found, as I’ve been working on my novels, that point of view is the key to their development or their downfall. It’s rather similar to how I teach my college writing students to approach writing an introduction to their essays: if it’s hard, it’s not the right beginning; if it’s easy to write, and just flows out, then it’s more likely to be the introduction you want to use.

Point of view isn’t much discussed in the writing books I’ve perused, but it’s more important than we might think. I’ve read books with narrators that have unlimited omniscience–where the narrator knows everything and gets into the minds of every single character–and I find such narration completely annoying. Because I can see what each person is thinking, I don’t know who to attach myself to…I can’t figure out who the main character is. I know that someone is bored while someone else is hot for her, while someone else is watching and thinking he wants them both killed.

Most third-person narration written today is limited omniscient, if it’s omniscient at all. That means an author expresses the thoughts of only one character–two at most–and readers know exactly who the main character is because that character is the one they know the most about. A lot of the fiction written today, especially in the YA sector, is first-person, where a character tells his or her own story. That’s convenient, except that the author needs to be careful not to break the rules and offer up action or thoughts which the main character couldn’t possibly know.

With my own novels, I follow a few automatic rules, one of them being narrative: I will NEVER write using unlimited omniscience. NEVER. (Other rules include not writing about writers, not writing plays about theatre people, not making everyone automatically rich, not writing without an ending in mind, etc.).

But I’ve also found that each novel seems to need a specific point of view. I’d written my first novel–at least, it’s first draft–and decided to experiment with writing it in first person. But the novel simply didn’t work. It refused to be written that way.

My second novel went less than five pages as third-person, before I switched it to first person. And my character told her own story. This third novel, which I began several years ago, but abandoned, has a VERY interesting plot (though I am biased). Yet I tried, again, to write it third-person, and it simply wasn’t working. I wrote 16 chapters of it that way, but it wouldn’t work. Then, yesterday, I realized I needed to switch to first person…and I wrote five pages in less than an hour. I found the easy switch, and now my character is telling her own story in her own way.

I’m not advocating first-person over third-person, not by a long shot. But each novel is best written in a certain point of view. William Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” would not have the same meaning if it weren’t written in third-person (plural) point-of-view. I can’t wait to see how my novel re-develops, now that my point-of-view has changed.

I am struck by the tendency for us not to trust each other. We hide all sorts of secrets from each other: opinions, ideas, truths about ourselves, preferences. My husband said he had only a handful of people around whom he could be himself…honestly, though, I’m not certain I have even a handful. I hide at least a little of myself from everyone, even those who are closest to me.

Even this blog…it is a cross between candidness and hiding. I might sound like I am really opening up, and in some ways this is true (for I am not lying). At the same time, I am not saying all sorts of things, whether because I know someone I actually know might be reading it (some of my friends have already checked out this blog more than once, even though it’s rather new), or because I fear being misunderstood even by people who don’t know me very well. So what I really think gets watered down, and my ideas never take shape the way they might if I weren’t afraid.

I was listening to Springsteen’s “Secret Garden” yesterday, and I was struck by the truth of it. Even my husband, who is my best friend, my closest companion, even he does not know everything. I have questions about myself that I simply cannot share with him. These questions are too dark to be understood, and I find myself uncomfortable with them. I can only imagine what he would think if he knew those secrets, those questions.

And that makes me wonder. What are we all hiding? Or am I alone in this? I cannot think so…for I see glimmers of secrecy in everyone around me. I see smiles which seem sincere, yet I sense a twitch in the cheek, or a wincing sort of expression in the person’s eyes, some incongruous nonverbal cue that suggests what they say is not all they are thinking.

Then again, I feel grateful I can’t hear what they are thinking. What if they are thinking bad things about me? Some problems I might be able to remedy if I knew, but other opinions may simply hurt me. Perhaps that part of us–the part we hide even from those we most love–is meant to be hidden. Perhaps we need those secrets to stay as they are…secret…until we feel safe enough to tell our secrets to the world.

This is a blog I actually wrote on the cruise, on June 16, but I’m recording it now:

 The motion sickness is getting to me, despite my medication. But I’m not sure that’s really my problem. All day I have felt bored. I’ve already had a nap, and I know I could go to my stateroom right now and fall asleep. They have all sorts of games going on around here, but I really don’t want to do any of them. I am really glad to be writing, finally. I’ve missed it over the last few days. I’ve missed it like I will be missing my children in a few more days…missed it terribly.

It seems as if many of those around me are bored as well. Everything here is built for relaxing, yet most of us are completely unprepared to relax for a whole week straight. I am looking forward to getting off the boat so that I can go for a long walk. I’ve already taken an aerobics class this morning (Richard ran), and I plan to hike everywhere I can when we step off the boat. I’ve only taken an elevator once so far, and I didn’t want to take it then, but Richard was in a hurry.

But what do I really want to do? I want to write. But we have an appointment at the spa in a little more than half an hour, and then we’ll be dressing for our first of two formal nights. At least that won’t take too long, since my dress is about as easy to wear as a night gown (and just as comfortable, too!).

So I am writing this little bit now…and perhaps I’ll be able to re-start my novel before I have to get to the spa. Then I can feel, at least, that I’ve started something.

This is the second of the two entries I wrote on my cruise, completed June 18:

We spent the morning tooling among the icebergs until we had to turn around (the icebergs were getting both too numerous and too big for safety). Very exciting…and viewing all this—and being out in the cold and the spray of rain, surrounded by whales coming to the surface and seals bobbing up out of the water or laying out on top of the icebergs themselves—has energized me to write about Seattle…especially since most of my novel takes place right on the water. Being on the water is beautiful, but it is eerie as well. If I fell into it, at this temperature, I’m not sure I’d make it to land before I succumbed, even though I am pretty fit.

And out here, up in the Tracy Arms Fjord, I’m not sure land would help me. The whole fjord seems to be high craggy rock, with trees clinging inexplicably to its sides. I might get to its edge, but the waves might just crack me against the rock at the very end, or if I managed to climb up, I’d have nothing to eat and far too many miles to go before I could find civilization. Very scary.

I would be utterly alone…and I am not certain what is more frightening than that. Perhaps that fear of being alone is one thing I can explore in my novel. Perhaps that is the whole point of the novel, in the end.

In two days I’ll be off to Alaska on a cruise (I won’t have a new blog update for at least a week), and the kids will be with their grandmother, aunt and uncles. My husband is planning on spending much of the cruise relaxing on deck, a drink in his hand and a plate of food on his lap.

I am bringing my laptop. And it won’t be so that I can check e-mail (Wi-Fi on ships is far too expensive, from what I hear). I am going to write. I hope to spend at least two hours a day writing, plugged in at the library or pretty much anywhere I can find an outlet (and that may be pretty hard, actually). If it means sitting in my room to do it, it will still happen.

Now, why would I do that, you might ask. Isn’t this a vacation? Yes, it is, but I have an extremely low tolerance for boredom. I don’t have to watch television while I’m cooking dinner–I’m not that needy to be entertained–but I really like to keep busy. My husband Richard looks forward to the day he can finally retire and play golf every day, but I am not sure I will ever retire, not really. Doing the same thing over and over simply doesn’t appeal to me.

I believe this may be a result of my own brain. Not that it’s a highly unusual one (or that smart, for that matter). But entertainment, for me, simply needs to involve my thoughts. Half the fun in walking the trails out here in the Northwest is having a good friend to talk to, or having a book or chapter I’m mulling over (if my friend cannot walk that day). I detest treadmills, only using them when I have good music to keep my mind occupied. Movies that have no real meaning have little appeal to me. Books that are too simple or predictable don’t either. My brain needs to think about everything, and if it doesn’t need any thinking, it won’t be much of a challenge.

And imagining a world–through the book I’m writing–is just as much of an adventure for me as visiting Alaska. I am so lucky to be able to do both on this vacation. I can explore the beauty of a state I am visiting for the first time, and I can also play with the world of my own fantasy. Who knows what one adventure will do for the other? Perhaps both will weave into one fabulous and meaningful experience.

I will report back soon on how the both sides of my vacation went. I am SO looking forward to it!

I am struck by how instinctive it is for me to back away from control. In most of my past, eating was the biggest area where I lacked control. I couldn’t seem to resist eating any leftover food, especially if it was sitting right in front of me. I often ordered the worst possible meals at restaurants (think fettucini alfredo!), and when the huge portion arrived, I’d nibble and nibble until my stomach was breaking and I felt completely sick. But that dish was usually empty.

It’s easy for me to claim no control over the rest of my life, too, especially when I am home with my children. Suddenly, the reason I don’t get something done is because of them, because they were needy, or they were sick or under the weather, or they made messes I had to clean up.

But the truth is, 90% of my life is a choice. I choose to perform some tasks over others. I choose to eat all that food. I choose not to work on my novel. Even with the responsibilities outside the home that I have–I have chosen all of these, and it is my right to choose to end those responsibilities. I am lucky to have that choice. My husband doesn’t–he has to go to work–but in a way, that is also his choice. He could choose to stay home with the kids while I worked. Then again, more than likely our income would be cut in half, and he would go mad inside of a week, but that choice could still be made.

We tell our eldest child that she has a choice, every morning, to see the world happily or to approach the day with a more negative outlook. You can call that a “Pollyanna Syndrome” and mock us for it, but choosing to look at the world positively can make all the difference. Nearly any activity or event (barring someone’s death), can be seen positively. Not getting a particular job can be a relief, as that job may have been more torture than the salary was worth. Having to move can bring all sorts of opportunities. Even when my children are sick, that gives me time to snuggle all day with them, make hot tea, and watch Harry Potter and Spiderman movies.

And choosing to write–choosing to turn an afternoon into a dozen pages of my own creation, choosing to make something tangible with my time rather than cleaning the bathrooms again or picking up the playroom for the fourth time that day–that is a choice I love to make. It isn’t always easy, but it’s always rewarding, even if what I wrote doesn’t last…even if I realize it needs a complete overhaul two years later (as in the case of this novel I began and then left alone).

Most importantly, knowing I can choose, knowing that I retain the control over most of my life–well, that’s priceless. I hold the power over what I do, and it is my choice, each morning, to decide what I will do with it.

And today, I will write (and play with my kids!).

After almost a week’s break, I have now truly begun work on my next novel. I read through the 16 or so chapters I had written of it (back when I lived in Kansas), and I realized most of those chapters will disappear in the new version. I did far too much “telling,” and not enough “showing,” a classic writer’s mistake.

Yesterday I finished the 4-page outline for the general movement of the book. I prefer to have an outline (with an ending) complete before I start working hard on a novel. I do the same even with a ten-minute play, for I like to know where a work is going before I begin. However, I just broke that rule with my last book, a modern-day Noah’s Ark story set in rural Oklahoma. All I knew about the end is that the flood would be over…nothing beyond that. And it turns out that the Ark novel is already itching for a sequel. Unfortunately for that novel, it has yet to be revised, and I always give it about a month to rest before I go back to it. I might wait longer, for now this new novel is eating at me. So the Ark sequel has a long time to wait, I fear.

This new one is set in Seattle. Funny, too, that I set it here before I even moved to the area, before I even knew I was going to move here. It’s a sort of mystery-meets-paranormal novel, with an eight-year-old ghost haunting the house of the protagonist. I like the way it ends, even if it seems a bit commercial at this point. I hope it isn’t see-through. I detest plots that are so predictable that readers pretty much know what’s going to happen half-way in (or earlier). It sort of has a romantic element in it, but since I’ve never thought finding romance was the end of one’s existence, I don’t think I could ever write a true romance. I prefer to examine characters developing, to help us understand their psychology, and see them change as they discover their hidden strengths and weaknesses. Perhaps that’s why I rarely read romances and tend to be dissatisfied with romantic comedies. “Getting the girl in the end” is really not that important to me. It’s what people do and think that I find infinitely more fascinating.

I recall many things from my childhood…outfits I wore, times when I was angry or sad or embarrassed…but one part of it I simply didn’t remember was the propensity children have to gravitate to the disgusting. For my own children, this began when they were very young. I purchased a Halloween-themed book called Frank was a Monster, a beautifully (if graphically) illustrated book about a Frankenstein sort of monster who goes out to a theater to dance on stage for everyone. As he does, parts of his body fall off, complete with flies, goo, and all matter of grossness.

My husband was astonished I’d even purchased it, but I thought my kids might like it–for Halloween. My kids LOVED it. They liked the beginning of the book fine, but as soon as Frank’s skull unzips and his brain spills out onto the stage, they think it’s absolutely FABULOUS! They gleefully go “EEEWWWWHHH!” when each body part falls off, and find the entire disgusting situation delightful.

And Frank is not the only disgusting thing they love. They discuss poop at every opportunity, always with the squinty smile and the obligatory “EEEWWWWHHH!” They giggle when someone passes gas, and everyone claims it. They show off boogers. And it isn’t just my children, either. Every kid I know seems to find all this stuff funny (in fact, I have a friend whose spouse still does). When my son turned four, he was in a pretty bad mood, so I sang him the birthday song that told him “you look like a monkey and you smell like one, too!” He thought that was so funny, we had to sing it over and over for nearly two hours, each time with different animals or other variations. And after each verse finished came the customary “EEEWWWWHHH!” and loads of laughter.

So, after many years, I have now come to face this strange reality of children. Yet, no matter how I try–or how willing I am to accommodate their strange tastes in literature and song–I cannot say I understand why they love the gross stuff at all. It seems just gross to me.