My daughter and son-in-law are very precious to me – almost as precious as the two wonderful grandchildren they’ve given me – but sometimes they give me a hard time. It’s not that they don’t care about me or my work. They do. It’s just that sometimes I think we live on different planets. If not planets, at least different planes of this planet.
For instance, the other day my daughter dropped by. (Oh she’s thoughtful, she called first.) I was in the middle of finishing up a lovely wedding scene in my latest book. This couple, who everyone thought would never make it, were finally having the wedding of their dreams. I cried through the whole ceremony
About the time I had them heading out on an extensive honeymoon, the door bell rang. I answered it, blew my nose and told daughter to come in.
"Are you crying?” She demanded.
I knew I might as well confess so I said, “Yes. June finally got married and…”
“Who’s June?”
“You know. The woman in my book who was shot and nobody thought she would make it….”
“But she’s not real, Mom. What’s wrong with you?”
Now you know if you’re a writer, you’d never tell another writer their characters were not real. Indeed! These people are real to me. I live with them for months. I give them life and they talk to me and I talk to them. I feel what they feel.
For example, in JILTED BY DEATH, when Willa met Trent and the shivers went down her spine, they went down mine too. When the hot plastic spewed on Ernie Wilkes in STETSON MOLD, I felt the pain. I felt alone and lost when Amy decided the best thing to do in DUO OF OPPISITES was to get lost in San Francisco. I was excited and thrilled when Gaylord Swanson and Nevis Poole presented Willa with a new car in ECHOES OF MERCY. When Nola Dean stumbled on a dead body in the darkness of her Myrtle Beach condo in MURDER IN SOUTH CAROLINA, I was as horrified as she was.
So how could anyone tell me my characters aren’t real?
Believe me, I’m not alone. Many writers out there do the same thing I do. We get into the heart and soul of these people we create and this is what makes them come alive on the page. If they don’t make the writer cry or laugh or feel, then they won’t make the reader cry or laugh or feel either.
And that’s what I strive for. I want my readers to feel for and with my characters. The sweetest words I’ve ever heard from a fan is, “I didn’t want the book to end. I want to know what happens to the people after you stopped the story.”
So call me weird. My family does and I don’t mind. Maybe I am a little weird. Maybe that is what it takes to be a writer. I don’t know. I only know that I love to make up stories and put them on paper. There is no other job where a grandmother like me could live part-time in a dream world, write those dreams down and if lucky get paid an amount which puts me below the poverty level.
Just so you won’t think I’m completely nuts, while I was thinking about writing this, I changed my cat litter, tossed a load of clothes in the washer and put a roast with pepperoncini in the crock pot. See, a writer can live in both worlds even if they are weird.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Back From Atlanta
I'm just back from Atlanta, where two of my grandchildren live. They were with me for several days last week, and I returned them Wed. On Thursday, we went to the open house at their new school, and on Friday I took them to their new doctor for their pre-school check up. On Saturday, I came home. This used to be easy, but now---I get tired. And there are only two of them! How on earth did I do it with five. Anyway, it was fun. At least I had fun. I'm not so sure about the dogs. They got a lot of walks though. The bad thing about having the kids is I don't get any "me" time, meaning I don't get in any writing. (How all the young mothers out there, turning out such great material, do it I don't know) However, as I was driving home, I thought about some of the things the kids had said. Like, from my five year old grandson, "Laney and Shea are sisters, aren't they." No, they aren't. One is a German Shepard and the other is an Italian Greyhound. The furthest thing from sisters I can imagine, but I don't think he was thinking of dog breeds. I think he meant family. And they are. Only, Shea tried to nail Laney yesterday and she wasn't sparing the teeth. This from two dogs who won't be separated long enough for me to take one of them to the vet and leave the other at home. Family members who love each other can get enough sometimes, and the fight is on. The reasons are infinite, and the conflict can be over in a matter of minutes (it was with the dogs) or can last a lifetime. Think-Hatfield and McCoy. And this conflict is what we write about. Not always family conflict, but that can be the most interesting, and the most deadly. I'm thinking of Brat Farrar, by Josephine Tey. A wonderful book about twins, brothers, who adored each other-to death. One of the most interesting character development books I've ever read. And thinking of it, made me think more about the characters I'm developing for my latest, working title, Murder Half Baked. This book is about old hurts, family ties, family love, and family rejection. I hope I can do it at least half as well as Tey.
Character development is the most important part of writing. There is no conflict, the reason a story exists, without strong characters. They don't always have to be murderers, or get murdered, but there is always a tug of war of some sort between the antogonist and the protagonist. Just as there is always conflict, and a tug of war, between real people. And that tug, that conflict is more pronounced between family members. Sort of 'up front and personal'. It makes for an interesting story to observe, to write, or to read about. Think about it. Thanks to my grandson and my dogs, I am.
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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