A few summers ago I wrote the entire first draft of a novel. Now I’m not saying this novel is perfected. It’s not. In fact, this particular book is filed on my computer until I come up with exactly the right hook for the opening—which would happen sooner if I spent more time thinking about who I really want that main character to be. But I still call this novel my miracle book because I was able to write the entire draft while babysitting a five-year-old.
My grandson Erik watched Wonder Pets every morning while I sat beside him on the couch and pounded the keyboard of my laptop until I wore the lettering off two of the keys. For those who don’t know, the wonder pets are a guinea pig named Linny, a turtle named Tuck, and a duckling named Ming Ming. These pets escape from their cages at a preschool every day after the humans go home. The escapees then rescue baby animals stuck in trees, wells, mud, or wherever else baby animals can get trapped. For some reason Wonder Pets and their cute little song about teamwork kept Erik quiet and kept me writing. I couldn’t write through Ben 10, or Jimmy Neutron, or especially not Fairly Oddparents. Too many explosions, magic gone terribly wrong, and parents who couldn’t put on their own shoes without consulting their children. But Wonder Pets kept me glued to my novel, entranced by my characters and their own fictional adventures until the book was complete.
Sadly, Erik has outgrown Wonder Pets. I’ve tried to keep steadily working at my computer in hopes of producing another book this summer. But I can’t come up with a decent murder scene while babysitting a child and four Chihuahua puppies to the background noise of cartoon children busily outsmarting the adults in their little cartoon lives.
I tried to entice Erik back to Wonder Pets by pointing out that teamwork is a great trait for him or any other smart kid to learn. And Linny, Tuck, and Ming Ming are so brave, so caring, exactly the right animals for him to emulate. My grandson was quick to tell me that eight-year-olds do not watch baby shows. Then he asked why I would think he could possibly be interested in stupid TV animals that travel around in a flying boat while they sing silly songs. In fact, he now believes my brain is too old for me to “think like normal people” and he knows he will soon have to take care of me. He suggested I call the driver license office to ask if there are emergency licenses for kids in his situation, kids who need to drive their really feeble grandmas to the hospital if their brains shut down.
Monday I am not babysitting. Monday I will have the house—and the TV—to myself. I can stay upstairs in my office and I can write anything I want without one single interruption. I’ll probably work on the latest book for a couple of hours. If the writing flows, I’ll rejoice. If it doesn’t—well, Wonder Pets might be on.
L.C. Evans
http://www.lcevans.com/
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Friday, August 8, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
The Perils of What If
The Perils of What if
L.C. Evans
If I had to guess, I’d say the most frequent question asked of me as a writer is, “Where do you get your ideas?” This question always puzzled me until daughter number four, my youngest, pointed out that not everyone lives in a world of what ifs the way I do.
“Mom, you could look at a cat crossing the road and within minutes you’ll have invented a dysfunctional family for the cat and a conflict situation involving the neighbor’s dog. Then you’ll wonder out loud what would happen if the poor animal discovered its owner’s body belly up in the den.”
“I wouldn’t. In my opinion there are enough mystery series involving cats.”
“You know what I mean,” she says, assuming an expression that makes me think she is the mom and I am not. “Other people do not glimpse a puff of smoke rising into the sky and then conclude Charlotte is under attack by aliens who have already set fire to Tryon Street.”
“Sweetie, I do not conclude, I merely wonder. I mean, what if that was the reason for the fire?”
“Sure, you merely wonder, and then your imagination goes into a feeding frenzy slurping up all the what ifs. You end up convincing yourself that the only reason the aliens have selected the Queen City for the focus of their trip across the galaxy is that they are here to beam up one or all of your children.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t argue. Tiggy is right. I do tend to let my imagination take over, as if it’s hooked to a giant quantum computer that explores all the possibilities, especially the more outlandish ones. Two years ago when she traveled to India—alone I might add—I didn’t hear from her for twenty-four whole hours. By the time she finally phoned home, I was certain my Tiggy was in the clutches of slave traders who had packed her into a cargo container for shipment to some undisclosed location where they need small Americans with attitude. Of course, I was already packing for my flight to New Delhi and planning how I was going to rip the kidnapers to shreds. I even made a mental note to shop for an outfit I could wear on Good Morning America.
Other moms, the blissfully unaware kind, might say to their children, “Sure, honey, you can climb that tree.” But my brood would hear something like this: “I’d rather you didn’t, but I wouldn’t want to be a mother hen or spoil your fun. Go ahead and climb the tree. Be sure to wear your bike helmet, your kneepads, and a parachute. Oh, and don’t forget to bring a rope. And while you’re up there you’ll have a good view, so look around and make sure there are no sociopaths skulking around the neighborhood.”
My children are grown now, but I still have a tendency—a small one, you understand—to point out possible outcomes of their actions. I mean, what if one of them took a job in Wyoming or one of those other big square states? And then the boss was lambasted over the head with a fishbowl and found dead in the men’s room. And my child became a suspect because she’d had an argument with him over the office feng shui and she hated his fish. What then? Hmmm. This could work.
So it is not surprising that my offspring believe the line between real life and plotting fiction is all too easily blurred in my case. We’ve finally reached a compromise. The next time one of my children announces plans to do something I just know is dangerous, I will react with all the emotion of a snail on tranquilizers. From now on my imagination and ideas will be reserved for writing. Really.
L.C. Evans
http://lcevans.com/
L.C. Evans
If I had to guess, I’d say the most frequent question asked of me as a writer is, “Where do you get your ideas?” This question always puzzled me until daughter number four, my youngest, pointed out that not everyone lives in a world of what ifs the way I do.
“Mom, you could look at a cat crossing the road and within minutes you’ll have invented a dysfunctional family for the cat and a conflict situation involving the neighbor’s dog. Then you’ll wonder out loud what would happen if the poor animal discovered its owner’s body belly up in the den.”
“I wouldn’t. In my opinion there are enough mystery series involving cats.”
“You know what I mean,” she says, assuming an expression that makes me think she is the mom and I am not. “Other people do not glimpse a puff of smoke rising into the sky and then conclude Charlotte is under attack by aliens who have already set fire to Tryon Street.”
“Sweetie, I do not conclude, I merely wonder. I mean, what if that was the reason for the fire?”
“Sure, you merely wonder, and then your imagination goes into a feeding frenzy slurping up all the what ifs. You end up convincing yourself that the only reason the aliens have selected the Queen City for the focus of their trip across the galaxy is that they are here to beam up one or all of your children.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t argue. Tiggy is right. I do tend to let my imagination take over, as if it’s hooked to a giant quantum computer that explores all the possibilities, especially the more outlandish ones. Two years ago when she traveled to India—alone I might add—I didn’t hear from her for twenty-four whole hours. By the time she finally phoned home, I was certain my Tiggy was in the clutches of slave traders who had packed her into a cargo container for shipment to some undisclosed location where they need small Americans with attitude. Of course, I was already packing for my flight to New Delhi and planning how I was going to rip the kidnapers to shreds. I even made a mental note to shop for an outfit I could wear on Good Morning America.
Other moms, the blissfully unaware kind, might say to their children, “Sure, honey, you can climb that tree.” But my brood would hear something like this: “I’d rather you didn’t, but I wouldn’t want to be a mother hen or spoil your fun. Go ahead and climb the tree. Be sure to wear your bike helmet, your kneepads, and a parachute. Oh, and don’t forget to bring a rope. And while you’re up there you’ll have a good view, so look around and make sure there are no sociopaths skulking around the neighborhood.”
My children are grown now, but I still have a tendency—a small one, you understand—to point out possible outcomes of their actions. I mean, what if one of them took a job in Wyoming or one of those other big square states? And then the boss was lambasted over the head with a fishbowl and found dead in the men’s room. And my child became a suspect because she’d had an argument with him over the office feng shui and she hated his fish. What then? Hmmm. This could work.
So it is not surprising that my offspring believe the line between real life and plotting fiction is all too easily blurred in my case. We’ve finally reached a compromise. The next time one of my children announces plans to do something I just know is dangerous, I will react with all the emotion of a snail on tranquilizers. From now on my imagination and ideas will be reserved for writing. Really.
L.C. Evans
http://lcevans.com/
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