So far this summer, I've been working a lot on my YA book. I can't stop thinking about it. At times, I feel like I live on Planet Jessica where nobody else is invited for conversation or good times except for the fictional characters I'm busy creating. It gets frustrating when I'm actually hanging out with real humans because I'm certain they think there's something wrong with me since I'm not my normal, intuitive self.
Those people are right, of course, there's something very wrong. But it isn't with me - it's with my story. I have an inviting premise. I have interesting characters. I have a fabulous setting. I have great snippets of scenes written down. I even have details that make me smile.
The problem? I have no plot.
This week I set myself the task of remedying that little problem. If you've ever attempted to write fiction I'm sure you can relate. Here are some of the things I tried:
1. Change my main character from a male to a female.
Well, that didn't work at all. I couldn't see the story any differently from a female's perspective. And, if anything, writing it that way limited how I saw the world I'd already created. It suddenly threw into shadow many of the things that I'd clearly defined. Nice idea, but my main character is a boy. The end.
2. Change the way I've been narrating it (from third person limited to first person).
While it totally changes my involvement with the story, writing from my main character's perspective may actually help in the long run. The one thing this does, and the thing I was really struggling with for a while, is that it gives my main character a clearly defined voice. I have him all figured out in my head, but I don't think his personality has transferred very well to paper just yet (of course, that could be the absence of plot). When I started writing in first person, he came alive. I don't know if this change will stick, but it's helping me for now.
3. Interview my characters.
My main character will eventually have three close friends. I haven't had the opportunity to get to know them quite yet because I'm not to the point where their roles become prominent (it's a school setting and they've all just met and don't really like each other). But, as I've stated before, I really believe that characters drive the plot. If I get to know them, they will tell me their stories. So when I went on my three mile run yesterday morning, I spent the whole time interviewing them in my head. I asked questions about their childhoods, why they came to this particular school, and what they plan to do in the future. I uncovered all kinds of secrets that are sure to help. (And, no, I'm not crazy. Writers do these sorts of things - ask anyone who writes.)
While these three "fixes" haven't exactly nailed down my plot, I'm not as frustrated about it as I was a week ago. I once read that writing a book is like driving a car on a foggy night. You can only see what's just in front of you and you have to trust in your ability to get you to your destination.
I trust myself.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Poop Bags, Sidewalk Chalk, and Michael Jackson
Odin and I live next to Evergreen Park. It's a pathetic little thing set in the middle of six or seven different apartment complexes. Odin can't run off-leash, chase balls, or even go after one of the many squirrels living there (though he often tries to drag me along on such adventures). He can walk with me and do his business and that's about it. In fact, the park's lone perk is the stations of free poop bags that dot the walk and the plethora of available trash cans to throw the used ones away in. Because of this, you can usually find us there strolling along in the afternoons which is exactly what we were doing right after I found out about the King of Pop's passing.
The death of Michael Jackson was a profound experience for many of us. It wasn't the fact that this super famous weird dude kicked the bucket - that was bound to happen sometime. Nor was it that this instant "family" of mourners suddenly formed on Facebook - the first time I felt connected to a real, caring community via the Internet. But I wasn't quite sure what made it profound until that afternoon with my dog in the lame-o park: the sidewalk chalk made it all make sense.
Despite being a pathetic excuse for a green space, Evergreen Park does actually have two small groves of trees - there might even be as many as twenty to thirty canopied conifers hiding small groups of teen pot smokers at any given time. It was as the paved path wove its way through this shady area that Odin and I came across a huge section of chalk art dedicated to the late King punctuated with many pink, blue, and yellow stars:
"Michael Jackson is always a real true star!"
Okay, despite the obvious lapse in grammar, this statement composed with child-like handwriting made me realize why I was so struck by Michael Jackson's death: it wasn't about the man or the music; it was about the memories.
It isn't really his death we're lamenting, but the death of something that once meant so much to us. We grew up with this guy in our heads, well, his music anyway, and those tunes punctuated many of our memories. His passing killed some of those bits of previously untouchable innocence and made me nostalgic for what once was.
I took a couple of photos of the artwork with the camera on my phone, but they didn't turn out well. I suppose that's the nature of memory itself: what we remember is often richer than what we can physically hold on to. So though I can pull my copy of "Number Ones" off the shelf and grasp in my fingers the magic that once was Michael Jackson, the CD doesn't even begin to compare to that summer in 1987 or 1988 when my friend Jeremy and I serenaded the cars whizzing down highway 47 from his front porch. We sang "Bad" and "Beat It" over and over again. We danced. Jeremy even wore a single glove on his hand and grabbed himself yelling the tuneful M.J. signature "he, he!" We weren't playing the music, we were living it. That's what I miss.
The death of Michael Jackson was a profound experience for many of us. It wasn't the fact that this super famous weird dude kicked the bucket - that was bound to happen sometime. Nor was it that this instant "family" of mourners suddenly formed on Facebook - the first time I felt connected to a real, caring community via the Internet. But I wasn't quite sure what made it profound until that afternoon with my dog in the lame-o park: the sidewalk chalk made it all make sense.
Despite being a pathetic excuse for a green space, Evergreen Park does actually have two small groves of trees - there might even be as many as twenty to thirty canopied conifers hiding small groups of teen pot smokers at any given time. It was as the paved path wove its way through this shady area that Odin and I came across a huge section of chalk art dedicated to the late King punctuated with many pink, blue, and yellow stars:
"Michael Jackson is always a real true star!"
Okay, despite the obvious lapse in grammar, this statement composed with child-like handwriting made me realize why I was so struck by Michael Jackson's death: it wasn't about the man or the music; it was about the memories.
It isn't really his death we're lamenting, but the death of something that once meant so much to us. We grew up with this guy in our heads, well, his music anyway, and those tunes punctuated many of our memories. His passing killed some of those bits of previously untouchable innocence and made me nostalgic for what once was.
I took a couple of photos of the artwork with the camera on my phone, but they didn't turn out well. I suppose that's the nature of memory itself: what we remember is often richer than what we can physically hold on to. So though I can pull my copy of "Number Ones" off the shelf and grasp in my fingers the magic that once was Michael Jackson, the CD doesn't even begin to compare to that summer in 1987 or 1988 when my friend Jeremy and I serenaded the cars whizzing down highway 47 from his front porch. We sang "Bad" and "Beat It" over and over again. We danced. Jeremy even wore a single glove on his hand and grabbed himself yelling the tuneful M.J. signature "he, he!" We weren't playing the music, we were living it. That's what I miss.
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