The Unexpected

It is easy to blog about unexpected things.  I've done so myself prior to this.  I suppose that's because the world around us is full of the unexpected.

Here's why I think it happens so much.  Most of us awake each day with expectations for our day. We expect to eat meals and go to work or school.  We expect to interact with familiar people or follow through on our agenda in our planner.  By having expectations, we set ourselves up to meet the unexpected at every turn.  Reality comes into play.

Most unexpected turns are small such as a traffic jam or tripping on the sidewalk, not usually the life changing events that, while they do happen, are rare.  And remember, the unexpected is not always bad.  It can be good.  The day after Christmas some family members and I headed out to see a new movie.  We got to the theater a little early, but not early enough - it was sold out.  Unexpected - yes, bad - not really.  We'll go another time and instead we did a little shopping and returned home to play with new Christmas presents.

Part of dealing with the unexpected is attitude.  We could have been angry and upset about the movie, but we took it in stride.  In books, characters will definitely need to face the unexpected.  How will they respond?

If a book is to be believable, different characters will react differently to unexpected turns of events.  Molehills of surprises can create mountains of distress or instead show the flexibility of an individual.  With a different character, the unexpected can create a paralysis, an inability to cope.  Much can be revealed about an individual by the way they react to the unexpected.

But for those of us "real" characters, I have a different question.  Since so much around us is unexpected, shouldn't that be exactly what we expect?

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to ...

I admit I was in a hurry this morning.  It's one of those days where I move from thing to thing throughout most of the day, and I was already late to help in my 6-year-old's classroom.   So, in this rush, even though my hair was still damp, I was trying to curl my bangs.  As I did so, I kept smelling some sweet, spicy smell like cinnamon or cloves.  I asked my husband if he had just sprayed some air freshener.  "No."  What could it be?

As I finished with my curling iron, I looked at it a little more closely.  It seemed to have streaks around it.  With realization dawning I understood what had happened.  That 6-year-old of mine loves our orange clove scented pump bottle of soap.  It is positioned very close, too close, to where my curling iron sits.  At some point soap must have dripped onto my curling iron.  When I plugged it in to heat up, it worked just like an incense burner in spreading that scent around.  Fine up to that point, but now I have clove scented bangs!  They're also just a little stiff.

What does any of this have to do with writing?  I haven't the foggiest!  But maybe it's the little moments that really have no lasting significance that make writing real and genuine.  Maybe I need to not be in so much of a hurry writing my "story" that I forget to make my people real, to make my tale seem true to life and believable.  Although, who would believe I would spend the day with clove scented soap in my hair?

Christmas Vacation

I have about a week before I leave for a family gathering, a Christmas vacation.  And while my writing routines cannot possibly stay the same, I know I will write.  It's not that I have a deadline to keep.  It's not that I can't afford to take off.  (This is kind of odd for a writer anyway seeing you are not getting paid by the hour but by the product.)  It's simply that I can't not write.

Thoughts constantly swirl in my head.  Where is the next story?  What are my future characters up to?  Do they need me yet?  Can I reach out to them and lift them up?  It's not possible to allow them to hang in suspended animation just because I am having fun with my family.  And so, I know that while sugar plums dance in my children's heads, I will be writing and putting on paper the sweet fruits that originated in my mind.  And sweet dreams to you too.

Ode to A Completed Memoir

There once was a writer from Solon
Who said, "Hey, let's get this ball rollin' "
And long tho' it took
She wrote down a book
'Bout her kids and how they've been growin'

Formulas

I come from a math background, and I must say I love the surety that 2+2=4.  It is complete.  It is correct and certain.  But do you want the same thing from your books?  That's hard to answer, and the answer isn't as well defined as my math problem.

Do you like formulaic books?  There are probably movies or books that we all like that admittedly are tied up neatly in some formula.  You can tell this is the case when you know exactly how the story is going to end.  The geeky boy will get the cute girl when one of them gets over themselves.  Or the main character is saved at the last minute by some unlikely hero.  And those stories can be good.  We can enjoy them and smile as we read.  But do they leave you thinking about them for days to come?  Do they pierce your soul?

The unexpected, unpredictable novel can leave a lasting impression, and kidnap your thoughts when you're supposed to be doing something else.  It can make you wonder or shiver.  It can leave you thirsty for more.  This is, of course, the harder book to write.

So, should a writer reach for the stars with a profound book, or simply settle for the formulaic, yet profitable novel?  Is it better to succeed at mediocrity or fall short of perfection?

The Housekeeping Tasks of Life

With every job come the necessary housekeeping items.  When you paint, you need to clean your brushes when you are done.  When you do scientific research, you have to explain your findings to others in understandable terms.  When you teach, you need to also grade papers and give feedback.

You may like these housekeeping tasks or dread them, or simply accept them with no real feeling either way.  I am finishing my book by putting together the appendix.  It's not glamorous.  It's not full of feeling like real writing.  But it needs to be done for the book to be complete.  I don't mind.  It's part of the process.

The question I have, since these tasks seem mundane and boring, is do you write about them in a book, including them with more vital activities?  Now, if you are writing a non-fiction, how-to book the answer is an obvious, yes.  But what about a biography or a novel?

My belief is that the answer to this is all about the feelings you want to evoke.  The tasks, in and of themselves, may not be interesting, but can they be used as tools?  Can the endless cleaning up of toys by a mother help you feel exhausted along with her?  Or can it be the means for the mother in the story to discover important information about her child?  Or could she discover a lost earring and uncover an affair?  Could her meaningful thoughts be allowed to flourish while performing the mindless task of picking up toys?  The possibilities are endless.

In the end, as a writer, you must keep the end goal in mind.  If the menial tasks in life help you tell your story, then they should be included.  If they are simply filler and mindless, who needs more of that in their life?  So, I will continue to work on my appendix and remind myself to use these tasks to move my stories forward or for good blogging fodder.

It's always one more thing . . .

Two days ago, the last time I blogged, I finished writing my book (except for the Appendix, which I'm working on today).  My daughter commented, "I'll bet that felt good."  Actually it felt like nothing.

I'm kind of surprised.  How am I supposed to feel?  Satisfied?  I think I will feel satisfied when it has been accepted by a publisher.  And maybe if it were a novel instead of a memoir/parenting book I would feel the sense of completion, of things being wrapped up.

What I really feel is a sense of, "Okay, what's next?"  I still have my set writing time, so I haven't freed up time just because I'm done.  I am now needing to decide which story idea to run with, what will be next on my writing agenda.  It's not a bad feeling.  I think I'm actually excited about starting the next project, with no real excitement about finishing this last one.

Don't get me wrong, I am happy with my book.  I even like it.  But I am driven to write.  I will not be satisfied with one book, one short story, one article.  There will always need to be one more thing.

Feelings

I have noticed something about good books versus great books.  A good book will hold your interest, intrigue you, keep you guessing.  And when you are done you might recommend it to a friend.  You may or may not read it again.

A great book, in my opinion, makes you feel.  How it makes you feel can vary greatly.  You may feel rage or fear, joy or sadness, outrage or contentment.  Does the book make you cry or smile involuntarily?  Does it make you want to get up and right the wrongs in the world?  Does it satisfy, as if a warm blanket were wrapped around you?

I have used this test on my own writing.  Stories that make me feel, even though I wrote them, are my best.  Others that are interesting, but don't really make me care about anything in particular, I know are lacking.

I'm not sure that some types of feelings I will ever be good at writing.  I don't know that I can invoke anger; I wouldn't be happy writing something so full of injustice to elicit such a response.  But I can write words that evoke emotions drawn from love.  We cry because we love, and we smile because we love.  And I can write about love because I have been greatly loved.  I grew up in  a loving home where I never doubted that my parents loved me.  That made it possible to go out into the world and love others and be loved by them.  And my parents still love me, and, to quote Robert Frost, "that has made all the difference."

Foggy Morning

When I arose this morning, the world was hidden behind soggy layers of fog.  It left any number of things to the imagination.  As my husband and son drove off to high school, they disappeared before they reached the end of the street.  We only saw them for as long as we did because of their tail lights burning through the mist around them.

Jesse (my six-year-old) and I had watched them evaporate into the ground-level clouds while we waited for his bus to appear like magic out of those same clouds.  We saw the lights first before any shape was visible.  Gradually Jesse made out yellow, then a bus form emerged.  As it got closer we could read the number on the bus.  It was indeed his bus, on time, like clockwork, like any other day.  And yet was it?

What is hidden in the mist?  What is in front of our eyes, yet we do not see, or will not see?  Does danger lurk or is it pleasant surprises?  Or is there nothing at all, only our fears magnified by the water droplets that obscure?