shakespearemom

Ever notice how boring most of your life is? I should say “my life,” since all I have to go on is my own experience. I suppose I’m just hoping I’m not alone in this.

You see, although I sometimes get a rush from some cool opportunity I receive, like the Amazon.com contest or other such things, for the most part my life runs on a sort of boring flatline… week after week of the same boring things to do: dishes, meals, vacuuming, sweeping, cleaning bathrooms once a week (hopefully!), carting kids everywhere, bookkeeping at the church, and the list drones on. 

I have a list very like this one today, but it’s not really making me jump up and get to work. Perhaps that is why I’m writing this blog instead of starting in on the dishes. For the most part, I get up in the morning because I have kids to get ready, breakfast to make, babysitting to do (the kids I sit come around 7:30 a.m.), things to clean, etc. 

But I do, on occasion, have real reasons to get up in the morning. I have plays that call to me, scenes that my mind works through while I am sleeping, dreams that lead to short stories, poems, or subplots… I have goals to get to, dreams of what I want to become, of what I want to do with my life. I know “doing dishes” isn’t what I plan to have carved into my tombstone. I want to make a difference. 

I know I’ve written about this before, but perhaps this is my attempt to get myself going this morning–to do something real this week instead of just keeping my house clean. I have the morning off, sort of, since all the kids will be in school until nearly noon. Do I go to church and figure out quarterly taxes? Do I clean the toilets? Do I do dishes? Fold laundry? Sweep?

Or do I set all that aside and feed my soul a bit, revising a play or two, fixing a huge problem one of my readers discovered in the novel I turned in at Amazon.com? Do I tend to my soul today, or clean my kitchen?

By now I know the answer… do you? What will you choose today?

I don’t usually rant (okay, I don’t always rant), but my husband and I have found another show we really enjoy on television: “Kings.” And, just as with so many shows before, our chosen show isn’t going to make it. It’s already been moved to Saturdays, which is pretty much the kiss of death, after only four episodes, and in a few more it will be cut entirely.

I say it’s happened before. I happened to my sister and me when we were younger (remember “Wizards and Warriors,” sis?). It happened two seasons ago with an absolutely fabulous show called Journeyman, which lasted about eight weeks before dying. It happened to me last season with Crusoe, and I knew it would with that particular show. At least that meant I enjoyed every juicy minute of it before it went off. 

But this show has barely started. And my husband and I watch it riveted, forgetting to eat what’s on the tray in front of us, forgetting to work on anything (and I never watch television without something in my hand to do)… yet its ratings started out crappy and have slowly dwindled to nothing. 

I shouldn’t be bitter. Yet I scan the television listing every evening for something to watch, and except for Monday night, when my favorite show and my husband’s run up against each other, I get nothing. I don’t tend to gravitate towards shows about raising children (or raising them poorly), for my kids don’t scream and kick me and pee in the front yard. I am not deserted on a desert island, especially by choice. Yet shows like “Big Brother” can go on for seasons when they offer nothing, while shows I actually like don’t last a season.

Perhaps I’m out of touch. Perhaps great acting, riveting character study, and sweeping epic drama aren’t what sells. That certainly seems to be the case with “Kings.” My husband loves it for its political drama, I for its unique cross between a Shakespearean history play and epic biblical theatre. This, I’ve thought over the past few weeks, is what drama is supposed to be like.

Darn. I feel like that guy on the “Journeyman” website, who wrote in to plead: “Please, please bring back this show!” My husband wrote it, too, just to let off steam. But it won’t work. No one is listening to the hundreds of people who love a show. If millions don’t tune in, the show is gone.

If only I were Oprah, and with a little mention could get millions of people to tune in and save it. 

Maybe Sci-fi will pick it up. Then again, if they do, they’ll probably bring in aliens and make the whole thing cheesy. Too many of their shows end up looking like Power Rangers for my liking.

Darn.

Dear Readers:

I know you lead hard, busy lives. I know some of you are working two jobs, have kids, are seeking a degree, have illnesses in the family to deal with, have dishes to do, bring work home, and are otherwise feeling overwhelmed.

But, you see, that’s just it. You need a break from all of that, a way to rise above all that tedium for just a few minutes, to let your right brain free, if only for a moment, so that you can show the world the genius you are keeping so tightly reined in for days on end.

Yet all the tedious activities are winning out. You look at a writing exercise, and think, Well, I’d love to do that, but it would take about ten minutes to complete, and I could take a shower in that time, or fold a load of laundry, or unload the dishwasher, or call two clients, or give my kid a bath…and on and on. So you don’t respond. You don’t take the ten minutes to do something you truly love because you let it fall to the bottom of your list.

And meanwhile, your own novel bides its time on your laptop, waiting for you for weeks on end, without a change. And that novel wakes you up at night, calling to you like an overstuffed eclair, and though you cannot find the strength to resist the eclair (after all, who could?), you find the strength to turn over, face the wall, and put yourself back to sleep. After all, you say, if I don’t get enough sleep, I won’t get as much work done tomorrow.

January 1st is always the time for New Year’s resolutions… yet April 1st is better. Couldn’t you resolve to play–to be the fool–at least once a day for the rest of the year? I’m sure most of you have already given up on your New Year’s resolution (I haven’t, but I tend to stick to things), so let’s make a new one. Resolve to put at the TOP of your list one foolish, playful thing each and every day. Don’t allow yourself to do the dishes until you’ve done it. Suck all your obligations up, and force yourself to do something no one else would value.

Color with crayons (it is really quite therapeutic). Put on some tango music and pull your significant other out on the dance floor, especially if you don’t have the first clue how to tango. Pull out that novel and write on it–even if you only get a paragraph written in those ten minutes. Take a completely useless walk. Go to a coffee shop with a magazine tucked under your arm, and don’t leave until you’ve gone through the whole thing. Take time out to round yourself a bit more, to venture off into the unknown.

And next time you read a blog, and it gives you something creative to do, don’t say you don’t have the time. Just write already! Do it for me. More than that, do it for you. You’ll be glad you did.

Today, for the first time, I watched Twilight. I’d read the books, and though I’m not the fan so many of my friends are (after all, I am a bit old), and although I would call neither the books nor the film amazing, I found one absolutely brilliant aspect to the film. 

So many films do this wrong when they translate a book into a movie. The plot may remain about the same, the characters stay consistent, but the mood of the film changes. What is mood? 

Good question. Wikipedia doesn’t even answer it (not yet, at least)… but it’s a feeling, blended from the setting, lighting, music, vocal resonance of actors, and the list goes on. And I’m a fan of films–even not so great films–that hold a mood all the way through. 

Honestly, most films don’t. Moulin Rouge had flashes of genius, and its “Roxanne” scene may be one of the best scenes ever put on film, but the film itself doesn’t keep its focus. In my opinion, the first forty minutes of it are pretty horrid. The frenetic cuts of film, the attempts to make what is going on funny (and none of it achieve actual humor), the odd twists that add nothing to the tone set at the very beginning of the film–all of this works against what I think the point of the film is.

But I’m not writing just to pick on Moulin Rouge. Despite its weaknesses, it has some brilliant scenes. Overall, though, its mood fails. Other films have the same problem: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Australia, Titanic, and many older films come to mind, but the list is too extensive for me to name.

Twilight manages to get that right, at least. Part of it is the setting–a dimly lit world from the overcast Northwest (an area I’m particularly fond of, since I live only a few hours from Forks). But the music plays a huge roll in the mood of the work–highlighting the softer, foreboding moments, mirroring the other elements pretty seamlessly. Firelight, a film I’ve used in composition classes, has a similar focus, primarily created through lighting, setting, and music (though the music does get a bit obvious, especially after several viewings). 

Now, in writing, the mood must also be created, but writers don’t have the same opportunities to use other media to help create it. All we have is words, yet those words serve to create the setting,  the dialogue (making word choice crucial at every point), and even the music of the piece (yes, you know from poetry that words are musical, too). 

So, what mood are you creating in your work? Does it follow through the whole piece? Where does it falter? Where does your novel not keep its focus?

Tomorrow I’ll give you an exercise to create mood. Be ready.

Actors are well-known for asking this question, mainly because, even though the final scene of Hamlet may be the culmination of conflict for four or five main actors, Hamlet most especially, the final scene is also filled with a bunch of other people: noblemen, soldiers, courtiers, bystanders, servants, etc. And while what the fifth soldier feels won’t be compelling to most of the audience, it will have an effect on the overall scene, on the overall movement of the play. 

Think about this in your personal life. How many times has motivation not kicked in? How many Sunday mornings have you wanted to lie under the covers, slumbering peacefully, while the rest of the world keeps turning? How often have you found it difficult to motivate others? I consider this question every day, especially on mornings when I manage to convince my son to undress, but it takes an open threat to get him to put clothes on. 

Now think about your characters, whether the persona of a poem or the tiniest character in a novel. What motivates these people? Why do they act as they do? Perhaps what they say is typically funny, or sarcastic, or angry, or kind, or stupid–but why? Why do they speak at all? Why do they reveal information about themselves or about others? 

Now, you may just say, “Look, my characters are mine, and I just put them in the scene, and then write down what they end up doing.” Larry McMurtry claims his characters act on their own, and he’s not the only writer who does this. But I’ve noticed so many characters who serve the action of the story, who further the movement of the main characters, but even after rereading (or rewatching) I can’t figure out why. 

And while the motivation for a minor character will likely not make the entire novel fail, it does lessen the impact of it. If we don’t see why someone does something, even if it only registers subconsciously, our suspension of disbelief may be what suffers. 

My favorite bone to pick? What motivates a love interest–guy or girl, doesn’t matter which–to change his or her mind and come back to a partner. From My Fair Lady to pretty much every single romantic comedy in American film, this is how the plot ends. We think the two people are separate forever, that what one of them did–lies, abuse, rage, cheating, misunderstanding, etc.–is too much for the other to forgive. So we follow that person who was left behind, while the soft, sad music is whining in the background, until the strings get a bit louder, the person looks up, and, LO! There she is, breathtaking in the sunlight, a smile on her face, forgiveness in her eyes. 

But why? Why on earth would she forgive him? Or he her? Why don’t they show a scene or two where the one who left is out in the world, figuring it all out? Are we just supposed to accept the idea that “love conquers all”? 

I need more than that, both as a reader and a watcher of films. After all, you want me to feel motivated to come back, don’t you? To see another film? Read another book?

Oh, you do? Then motivate me. 

Whenever a great book or film comes out, people start talking sequel. Why? A number of reasons:

1. Lots of people like the first one, so publishers/producers think a second would also generate a lot of profit.

I said “a number of reasons” because publishers/producers/authors/screenwriters have said a number of other reasons:

1.  The story isn’t complete yet.

2.  A good idea is worth repeating.

3.  This book/film is starting out a whole genre/saga/world/religion/movement, and to keep going, it needs to be furthered.

Honestly, though, I don’t think any of those later reasons are actually the reason… it’s the first one. And it’s the reason we have 482 tales from Babysitter’s Club, Goosebumps and The Magic Treehouse… because publishers have figured out that readers, especially young readers, will devour books along the same lines or by the same writers as books they already love, and it will often take them several hundred volumes of those writings to figure out that the 47th installment isn’t nearly as good as the first one was. Money makes the world go ’round, doesn’t it?

It may very well make the world go ’round–though in this economy, I’m surprised the world isn’t grinding to a halt–but money does NOT, in any way, make for a good sequel.

So what does make a good sequel? 

The best sequels, I have found, were intended all along. J. K. Rowling had her plan for book seven figured out before book one was even published, and Tolkien Lord of the Rings trilogy is really more of a three-part book than three separate novels. Other writers have centered each book around a particular character, making each book stand alone and complement the other books in the series. For a sequel to happen well, it must have a reason for being, beyond money. If the first story isn’t finished, the sequel can offer the next step in the drama. But there must be truly something more to tell, something that is left behind, undiscovered, if the sequel doesn’t come out.

And it’s amazing how bad so many sequels turn out. They rehash the same plot lines, or simply bore us to death offering more backstory on characters than we could ever want. But if the sequel doesn’t have a true plot line that makes it worth reading, if it doesn’t offer us readers something new, it isn’t worth printing. It will be forgotten over time, if it isn’t criticized at the beginning. 

If you’re writing (or have written) a novel, have you thought of a sequel? Do you already have one in mind? Does it have its own purpose, beyond making a little more money for you once the first one has been published?

I hope it does. If it’s only purpose is profit, it likely won’t be the sequel I’m looking for. 

Come to think of it, if the first novel is only written for profit, I probably won’t like it, either. 

I’ve already blogged about reading one’s words out loud–when one is revising–for several reasons. But since I am shortly heading off to a local theatre here in Seattle to watch half a dozen actors present my play Desdemona to a modest audience, I wanted to cover a few things that make theatre a little different from novel writing. 

It is still important that the author of a play read through the play aloud–and I suggest doing so more than once. Though a novel is more narrative than dialogue, and plays work in the reverse–sometimes nearly devoid of narrative–both forms of storytelling benefit from oral reading. You can hear the pacing of a conversation. You can see how fast or slow the plot develops, and make changes. You might even cut much of your stage direction, allowing future productions to find their own way to block characters or contribute to the play’s meaning.

But nothing–and I mean nothing–is more beneficial to a playwright than having talented, experienced actors do the reading for her. Suddenly, instead of tackling all four characters in a single scene, trying to make their voices different, and thereby not devoting enough time to listening, a playwright can sit back, watch the drama unfold, and feel the play in the same way an audience would feel it for the first time.

It is both a thrill to hear one’s own words coming out of an actor’s mouth, and a terrifying ordeal. What if what you thought was funny wasn’t? What if the play drowns in the second act, and the energy never rises back up again? What if a certain scene doesn’t make any sense at all? It’s nerve-wracking, but the benefits to the exposure are endless. You may have found yourself stuck on a certain scene, aware that it didn’t work, but unsure why (and clueless how to fix it). But each actor is on a mission while reading your piece. His or her job is to figure out and project a certain character–and skilled actors will note places where dialogue seems out of character, where an action or response seems unmotivated, or where he or she can’t figure out what is really going on between characters. Each actor–even not-so-experienced actors–can offer valuable criticism, information about how they felt, what they saw, or where they saw the character going, and such information gives the playwright a lot to work on.

An audience makes the session even better, though an audience is not necessary for the time to be worthwhile. But an audience’s only job is to react. They will laugh when something’s funny, be moved when something affects them, and follow along with the flow of the piece. And if something jars, if something isn’t what they wanted, expected, or imagined, they give you feedback on that as well. The feedback might get you to change something significant, or it may reinforce the reasons that you wrote it down the way you did, and convince you that you must not change it. 

So if you have a play–even a short one–bake a few brownies and invite some actors over to read it. If you don’t think the play’s that good, make some deviled eggs, too. And ask questions, take all comments with a smile, and learn from others in the craft. Your play will be the better for it.

Now I need to get going. I have much to do before I go. Wish me luck! 

AAAAAaaaaaaaahhhhh! I feel like walking out the door and screaming at the top of my lungs. I have a list a mile long, and none of it–none of it except this blog–is something I truly want to do. Errands to run (need eggs, art posters, and a zipper, all to be had in different places), things to do (exercise at the YMCA, write cover letter for job, take in hubby’s jacket), and I don’t have a chance to get everything done… which means no writing (except for this, which I sneak in just before the kids I watch come over in the morning).

So I’m not writing. I haven’t been writing in about two weeks. And I would, by this time, be committed to a madhouse, straightjacket-bound, if I weren’t thinking. 

I’ve been thinking about everything I’ve read over the last few weeks–four books, over a dozen manga, a sister’s novel, two plays–picking out things I like about each thing, stuff that works, narrative voices that I feel attuned to, places and adventures and characters that strike me in unique ways. Stuff that doesn’t work, people I don’t know well enough to care about, situations that feel contrived, or take too long to come to fruition (or do so too quickly).

I’ve also been thinking about the revision of several of my own plays… for I now know how to fix them, how to make them truly worth staging (and when I don’t think they are worth it, no one else will). Now it’s a question of which play do I work on first? I think I need to work on a one-act, since it will be used for a short play festival this coming summer (yes, actors, techies, costumes, everything).

And I’ve been thinking about several novels. Three new ones (the ideas are slowly forming in my mind), a research book on ghosts (in my area), and my first novel–only with this version, I’m going to plan out the whole series, pulling events and character developments out of the original and spreading them out through the whole series. Only working on this series means planning out the entire thing before I begin to write again. It also means a LOT of research on Native American tribes here in the NW and in western Canada. Native American rituals, songs, and mythological traditions are going to play a huge role in the development of the books, and I can’t write about what I only sort of know.

So, even if my fingers aren’t typing on the next great novel–and they wouldn’t be even if I were writing (I’m not such a complete braggart that I actually believe I’ll write the best novel ever), my faculties are slowly recharging. My brain is whirling with new ideas, new paths, and new ways to keep the straightjacket at bay.

You know the feeling: nobody understands you. No one sees what you are going through. No one can possibly see the world through your eyes, see your pain, sense your true level of frustration, notice you. The feeling might come at work, or at home (I remember an ad where dishes are washed, diapers changed, etc., all by unseen hands), or online. You think nobody hears you, or if they do, they aren’t really listening. 

What can you do? You can start screaming at people around you, biting at them in the same way Harry Potter snapped at his friends in book 5. Not very effective, really. It works well to chase people away. You can also give up entirely, playing the martyr, ending your long suffering by tossing your novel in the trash (nobody wants to read it anyway, you might say). 

Or you can ask for help. 

It’s tough. Tougher if you’ve never done it. It means you have to put your own emotional vulnerability in front of people. And they might scoff. They might ignore you still. More than likely, though, they have similar feelings of their own–or have had them–and they will reach out and reassure you. 

I thought about this as I read one of my favorite blogs, and it’s funny that it came from her, since she just received an award on Today.com and her blog seemed to be going strong. But her latest blog entry was a little plea for help, a plea that someone–anyone–reply to a blog so that she knew they were there. I did, and I was one of many who wrote back, the unseen readers she’d had all along without knowing, since they hadn’t written a response to any of her entries. You should check it out, and give her a few words of encouragement… she needs them right now.

I’m lucky. My sister checks my blog out several times a day (thanks, Sis!), writing encouraging words at every turn. And I have a playwrights group now, though I don’t meet with them as much as I’d like. They read my stuff, give me feedback, and then let me do the same for them. We support each other as we all struggle to work on our craft. I have moms to turn to when the kids drive me insane, and friends who share some similar struggles, or who like to read my writing and give me a gut reaction.

If you feel alone, find a network. It might be online, it might be a meet-twice-a-month-at-a-coffee-club sort of group. It could be for moms, or dads, or writers, or readers, or actors, artists, whatever. And if you can’t find one (craigslist is a great place to start), make one up, and post meeting times. Meet at the library–it’s free–and see who else shows up. 

Believe it or not, your cry for attention may be exactly what others need… most of us go through life far more lonely than we should be, and one person, by reaching for help, can change the lives of many more who feel the same way.

So reach out. See who reaches back. You might be surprised.

Just don’t give up…

Although my main profession is writing, at least according to this blog, I actually have over 15 years’ experience teaching English and writing at the college level (with a little junior and high school thrown in). I am about 2/3 of the way through a writing class right now, and a recent conversation reminded me of an important point with teaching: expectations.

As part of my education degree, I was required to conduct “field experience” three times, including two stints at the local high school and a 12-week session in junior high. At the high school, the teacher’s lounge was an illuminating place for me. Teachers–and even the principal–sat around at lunch ranting about the lame students they had, whining that retirement wasn’t closer, and commiserating about everything. In the class I was observing, the teacher–one of those whining in the lounge–was spending four weeks reading The Scarlet Letter aloud in her classes, in a droning voice that nearly put me to sleep. Now, I really like that novel, but I nearly forgot how much I liked it because of her reading. And I could tell that the students didn’t like it, either. The only time she actually interacted with them was when she told them to be quiet or insulted one of them, telling them they’d never amount to anything if they didn’t listen. The students were naturally crabby about the whole thing, and they weren’t the kindest in response. And those same students were going to walk out of that class believing that The Scarlet Letter was a terrible book, that English stunk, and that school was a waste of time.

When I moved to the junior high, the teacher’s lounge was a hotbed of enthusiasm. The same actions that depressed the high school teachers made the junior high students rave. And I found myself drawn in by their happiness, by their optimism about their students. Instead of being encouraged to quell student discussion, I was pushed to do the opposite. “Expect them to be involved,” the principal told me, “and they will be. Encourage those who aren’t sharing to do so, and  create activities that involve the whole class, but let each kid shine.” I was teaching speech and theatre, so the task wasn’t hard, and I had a few lone resistant students, but they were won over. I had one student especially who, seeing on his progress report that he had a C+ in class, told me he’d never thought he’d pass at all. He was suddenly filled with a desire to do even better, and his final grade was a B. Overall, my classes were teeming with students who couldn’t wait to do the next activity, who raised their hands desperately, who wanted more than anything in the world to be involved.

Were the two groups of students radically different? I don’t think so. It was the expectation that changed. I have found in my own personal experience that I resist low expectations. When someone dismisses me, assuming I have little to offer, little talent, or a low capacity for achievement, I get mad, and I want to prove them wrong. However, what I’ve realized as an adult is that these same people will see what they want to see. I cannot ever prove to them that I’m worth more than they expect. So I stop trying. At the same time, I find I want to be around people who expect a lot from me. Their high expectations mean a great deal, for I know that as I grow and gain in expertise, they will be there cheering me on, watching my progress, and raising their expectations as I raise my game.

Perhaps the saying is true: “You get what you expect.” My kids know I expect a lot, but they aren’t weighed down by my judgment (you don’t want them to think they can never measure up, for that won’t help them–that is actually a low expectation), and they act better as a result. They are better behaved kids because I expect them to be.

So, what are your expectations? What do you expect from others? What do they expect from you? Can you raise those sights a bit, push yourself farther?