Stinky Writing: Using All Five Senses (Including Smell)

Writers often draw their readers into the imaginary world they've created through the use of descriptive language.  They do this by using sensory details, which should include all five of the senses:  sight, sound, smell, touch and taste.  I always thought that I had a tendency to focus solely on visual details, but in the past year I've realized something else.  I am obsessed with smells.

A description of the scent that wafts from a nearby bakery is included in the first paragraph of my contemporary YA novel, "The French Impressionist."  I discuss smell (or odors) quite often in my historical YA novel "The Digger," about a young boy who works digging up the recently dead to sell to medical schools.  And, in chapter one I include details regarding the odiferous properties of the slums where my protagonist is trapped in my latest historical "work in progress," (WIP,) which I call:  "Kenna's Close."

Hmmm...I suppose I am a bit obsessed with what my nose knows.

A while ago, a friend wrote about the use of sensory details in writing, as a prompt on her blog.  I wanted to try to include descriptions of all five senses in a writing exercise.  This is what I came up with:

*********************************************************************************

“Bet you’re too scared to go in there.”

Addison’s words stung.  They rattled around in my brain and would pop up to hit me, hard, like those stupid brown grasshoppers that plonked against my legs as I crossed the dry grass out back.  All through breakfast my brother had whispered “coward,” so Mom wouldn’t hear.  I showed him a big mouthful of mushy, sugary, Fruit Loops to show I didn’t care, but I did.  He knew it.  Finally, when Mom left for work, I stuck my chin out and snuck out back to crawl through a gap in the fence that separates our house from the old Milford place.  If my big brother wasn’t too scared to go inside the town’s “haunted house,” I wouldn’t be either.  After all, I was nine years old.  I was too old to be scared.

The rusted knob rattled under my grasp but finally turned with a screech, like the old house was protesting against the intrusion.  The door opened toward me with a soft groan.   I felt like the house was breathing out its hot, stale breath all over me.  Old houses have a smell to them, and this place was no exception.  The odor of rotting wood and something almost sweet, like a summer garden filled with dying flowers, filled my nose and mouth, and I swear I tasted it.  Chewed on it.  I spat and shoved the neck of my Captain America t-shirt over my mouth and nose so all I could smell was the scent of Downey fabric softener and my own sweat.  Then, before I could change my mind, I hurtled inside, mega-fast, before ninety-seven year-old Mrs. Compton across the street could spy me through her lace curtains and call the cops.

This house was alive. 

 It creaked, it moaned, it popped and crackled, like Mrs. Compton when she tries to stand up in church.  What were all those sounds?  Was someone else in here?  After being out in the bright mid-summer sun, I was blind in this old, dim cave of a place.  My heart nearly pounded itself out of my chest, but after I blinked a few thousand times, I could finally see.  There was no one but me.  In fact, there wasn’t much at all to look at.  A front room with a low ceiling, an empty fireplace, pale circles and squares where pictures must have once hung on faded wallpaper that was printed with sickly-looking yellow roses.  Dust-covered floorboards displayed a set of footprints that led away from where I stood, on out into a hallway, where I spied a set of stairs.

“You gotta wave to me from THAT window,” Addison had told me with a sneer.  “If you don’t, I’ll know you’re chicken.”

The steps shivered under my bare feet.  I bounced up and down a bit to test them out, but they held my weight, so I crept upward, fast as I dared.  The treads were covered with threadbare carpet that may have been green at one time.  The carpet felt so gritty under my feet it was like walking on dirt.   Breathing harder, I got to the top where there was a small landing, and then another hallway stretched out in front of me.  Two doors on the left, one to my right, and one down at the end.  That was the room I needed to enter; the one that faced the back of our house and our kitchen window.  It’s where I’d find THAT window, the one where Addison insists he sees a face staring out sometimes, like a pale smudge on a sheet of black paper, at night when everyone else is asleep.

The knob was shiny.  I didn’t know why, but that kinda struck me as funny.  Everything else in this house is dusty or rusty, faded and ancient, but that doorknob was brand new. 

I swallowed and could still taste Fruit Loops.  

“Go on, Cam!  Get it over with!” I mumbled to myself, my mouth still muffled inside the neck of my shirt.  The hot, still air in this place was getting to me.  I wanted to leave as fast as I could and get back to the air-conditioned safety of my own room.  A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of my face, leaving a salty, itchy trail on my cheek.  Finally, pulling my shirt away from my face, I turned the knob and opened the door.

Then, I screamed and ran, blindly, stumbling my way down the stairs, through the front room and out onto the front porch. 

That was no empty room.

*********************************************************************************

Well, that was fun.  :-)  As I was writing, I realized that I still tended to focus quite a bit on the visual properties of something, and then on the smell.  Old houses do have a particular odor, and true to my nature, I included descriptions of smell.

My new goal is to remember to include other sensory characteristics, including, in particular, touch and sound, when I write.  But I'll never forget to include how something smells, because for me, smell is where it's at.

Happy writing!

The Joys of Rejection (Note Sarcasm)

Rejection hurts.  We all know that!  We are rejected in many ways throughout our lives.  Ever develop a huge crush on someone, only to find out that the object of your affection was about as attracted to you as they might be to a jellyfish, a random pebble on the street, or a blob of mustard on your shirt?

Ever work extra hard on a school assignment, forgoing favorite TV shows or hanging out with friends because you were so determined to excel, then find you'd earned a nice, bland B grade?  Or a C?

Have you ever spent months working on the rough draft of a novel, then many more months revising, revising, revising?  And then, after that, have you ever spent perhaps more than a year attending writing conferences and workshops, and had writing group friends read and give feedback and suggestions, then continue to make even more changes to your manuscript?

THEN,  have you ever spent about eighteen months sending query letter after query letter to literary agents, hoping and praying that one of them would see something worthwhile in your novel, and maybe, just MAYBE want to represent you?  Only to receive rejection after rejection after rejection....

I have, and it's painful!  Why?  Because when a writer sends out queries, she is sending out the results of countless hours of effort, but not only that.  When I send out my work,  I am sharing a piece of my soul.  I'm not exaggerating, here!  Your novel, no matter how short or long, comes from somewhere deep inside, and when you put it on display for others to read, you are in a way baring your soul to the world.  It's like you've taken a metaphorical knife, sliced off a bit of the very essence of your being, and stuck it on a platter with a sprig of parsley.  You are vulnerable, because you are asking for something that you created, something that is entwined about your heart, to be weighed and judged. And therefore, you are opening yourself up to rejection.

Why do I keep doing this?  Today, I'm not so sure.  The last polite "no thanks" from an agent hurt.  It hurt because she loved my initial query letter and the concept of my novel.  She went so far as to say "I really liked what I've read so far" when she asked to read my entire manuscript.  This was the first request for a full manuscript I'd ever received and I was finally starting to feel hopeful.

But, of course, you know the result.  After a while, I got the "thanks but no thanks" email.  And, the dreaded "not connecting enough with the writing" phrase that I have started to see often whilst spending my time querying agents, to my great chagrin.  I realize that at some point I may have to let the dream of publishing this particular novel go.  And that hurts worse than a root canal, because I love my characters and my novel.  I feel like I have something important to say, and that others might feel that way, too.

Oh, well.  Dealing with rejection is character-building, right?  And, in case anyone was wondering, I haven't only written one novel.  I've written several, and have spent countless more hours revising these as well.  So, if I don't find an agent who wants to help poor Rosemary see the light of day, maybe they'll want to help one of my other characters join the world of published fiction.

I'll get over my disappointment, and as usual, I'll forge ahead.  I'll continue to write and try to make my work better and better.

But I'll do it tomorrow.  Today, only for today, I'm going to indulge in a mini pity party.  Don't worry if you hear me screaming "Mulder!!!" or:   "Scullyyyyy!!" if you pass by my house.  I'm just drowning my sorrows in a bucket of hot fudge while watching a few classic episodes of the X-Files. The cure for all ills.

Write on!

Kenna Seeks Her Revenge: AKA Here We Go Again, it's Nanowrimo Time!

Here I go again, thinking I can write historical novels.  I love research, and have no problem spending time perusing library shelves, doing Google searches or watching YouTube videos about 17th century women's fashions, Cromwell and the Puritans, or King Charles II and his many, many mistresses.  (Loser).  I've learned fascinating historical tidbits:  in the 1600's, men began to wear those long, curly, heinously unattractive wigs, thanks to King Louis XIV, who wanted to hide his shiny bald head.   The word "etiquette," meaning rules for proper behavior, comes from tiny signs ('etiquettes' in French) placed about the gardens of Versailles, reminding people to mind their manners, which included keeping off the grass, not trampling the flowers and picking up one's garbage.  Midwives wore read cloaks and had to swear an oath that they weren't practicing witchcraft. Doctors used to wear these long, birdish-looking leather masks with beak-like protrusions that were filled with aromatic herbs.  They did this to avoid catching the Bubonic Plague when treating victims of the horrible disease.  

Fun stuff!  My biggest problem?  The lingo of the time.  How did people communicate with one another who lived, say, in the poorest slums of Edinburgh, Scotland in the mid 1600's?  Is there a textbook somewhere?  

Google searches yield interesting and fun slang terms and sayings, but it's hard to know whether or not such words were in use more than 300 years ago.  I considered contacting some linguistics professor some where, who, perhaps, specializes in this kind of thing.  I can imagine the phone conversation now:  "I'm an unpublished, unknown wannabe writer who needs to find out how people used to speak and what slang terms they used in Scotland in the mid 1600's.  Can you help me?"  Hmm....  I haven't taken that particular route, yet.  

Well, I decided to take the plunge, anyway, thanks to the fact that November is "National Novel Writing Month," or "nanowrimo" for short.  This time of year just seems to lend itself well to parking yourself in front of your laptop and typing away, while the wind howls outside and you can sip all the hot chocolate or peppermint tea you'd like, while writing fake, historically inaccurate dialogue that makes you cringe.

So, here's my first chapter.  Kenna comes from a well-off family, but after the death of her sister, she finds herself trapped in what she calls "The Close," a warren of narrow passages and alleys between tall tenement buildings in the heart of Edinburgh, Scotland.  As you can tell from the opening paragraph, she's ticked and plans her revenge.  :-)

And, if anyone has any suggestions or comments about that whole 17th century "genuine Scottish lingo" issue, feel free to comment!

KENNA'S CLOSE

by Rebecca Bischoff

CHAPTER ONE

If I find Oliver, I will plunge my knife into his heart.  I won’t trifle with powders or potions, the method he surely used to murder his wife.  I will not allow myself the luxury of watching him die by inches, as pain fills his wretched soul.  What I have learned in this filthy place echoing with the squeal of rats and moans of the starving is that I will only have one chance.  One blow, no more.  I must not falter. 

I only want to see Oliver’s life breath leave his body.  Then my sister is avenged.

Annie murmurs and fidgets in her sleep.  I place a hand on her forehead, and my light touch is enough.  She quiets and her breathing slows.  This child, with eyes that are pools of clear water and a tangle of hair that hangs over her round face like a matted curtain, clung to me the moment she saw me.  I could not bear to push her away.  Not in a place like this.  Here, Annie cannot survive without me. 

Yet, it’s not likely I myself will survive this place much longer.  The Close is my prison, and has been these past few days.  If I am to live, and if I am to have my revenge, I must find a way out.

Dawn approaches.  I can tell by the feel in the air.  Light doesn’t truly penetrate here in the Close, except for a few brief moments at midday when the sun is directly overhead, but early morning there is a gradual lessening of the darkness, as though someone has pushed aside a curtain that covers a filthy window and allowed a few weak rays to filter inside a room. 

Careful not to disturb Annie, I rise from my bed, and nearly laugh aloud that I could think of it as such.  My bed is no more than a worn spot on the cobbles, a tiny space of sorts between two buildings and behind a rotten barrel left there long ago.  It is where this child and I huddle at night.  It is a refuge, away from prying eyes, out of reach of the slops thrown at all hours from the upper windows.  Hidden we must remain, especially at night, when The Watchman wanders up and down, up and down, his footsteps interminable, echoing.  He must not find us.  

Stretching aching bones, I feel my shoulders sag at memories which never cease torment me when I arise.   I remember no dreams.  Yet I must sleep in snatches during my exhausted stupor each long night as I huddle with the child and clutch the knife inside my pocket, not willing to let it go for a moment.  I suppose this is when I see visions of the past, for these thoughts hurt me so each time I awaken.  Feather beds.  Clean linens that smell of lavender.  Plentiful food.  A hot fire.  .

           

I take a deep breath and wrinkle my nose at the smells that invade my being.  I’m not yet used to the stench here.  Our latrine at home never smelled this bad.  Mrs. Harris kept it clean by pouring lime into it each week.  Drains carried away slops and kitchen scraps from the main house to the river.  Our home smelled of herbs and rushes scattered on the floors, which were swept away each night and replaced each morning.

The Close smells of human waste and the shells of those who were left where they died.  The Body Men have not been sent in.  Cries for help are ignored.

“Kenna?” Annie says.  She sounds startled.

“Hush,” I whisper, turning back to kneel beside her.  “I’m here.”

“Hungry,” she says.  Her voice is not plaintive.  She knows as well as I that hunger is our faithful companion.  Its claws never let go. 

“Let’s go, then,” I say, helping her to her feet.  She clutches her doll and smiles at me, and I force my face into what I hope is a cheerful expression.  I adjust my dress, tightening the laces of the bodice and scratching at my sweaty, dirty skin.  My hair must look much as Annie’s does, though I’ve tried to keep it braided and off my face.

We ease past the barrel and pick our way into the street.  All is quiet, except for the squalling of the babe from somewhere a few stories above our heads.  The little one cries most of the time.  I’ve grown used to the sound.  Annie cradles her doll, a few scraps of fabric fallen from a clothesline high above that I’d wrapped around a bit of wood, and shushes it.   My heart turns over for a moment.  Where is her family?  No one I have asked claims her, nor do they know from whence she came.  It is as though this child, like me, does not belong in the Close.  Yet, I cannot care for her.  I can hardly care for myself.  I must find her family, or someone to take her in.

            
Hearing footsteps approach, I pull Annie to my side and sweep into a doorway.  Unfortunately, someone else was there before us.

“Shove off,” a rough voice grunts, and a hard fist punches me in the side.  Gasping for air, I back away, trying to apologize but unable to form words.

Annie whimpers as we move off, stumbling along uneven cobbles.  I turn back, straining to see who approaches in the pale darkness of early morning.

            
A doorway opens and flickering light allows me a glimpse of the pitted face of Mr. Shaw, the baker.  He is not one I’d wish to encounter alone.  He saw me, the second day after my arrival here. Faint after nearly a day with no food, I'd snatched a loaf from the window when his back was turned.  I am certain he knows what I did.

His shop is at the opposite end of the Close, nearly a mile away.  He’s carrying what appears to be a heavy parcel in his arms, and his eyes dart about as though he fears something.  I know the look; I see it in the faces of everyone here.  I suppose I wear that expression most of the time as well. 

The door closes and Shaw passes us by as we back away and press ourselves to the side of the building.  He pays us no mind and I’m about to move on but at that moment, a hand seizes my foot and I cry out.  Looking down, I see that someone has reached out from between the bars of a low window.  I stumble and barely keep my footing, as two hands now have a tight grip on my ankle.

Don’t be alarmed, pretty lass.  Fancy coming down here to give me a bit of company?  I’ll share my ale with you.”

Let me be,” I blurt, tugging and straining in vain against the ever-tightening grip.  Annie begins to cry.

“Use your blade, girl,” a familiar rough voice grunts.  The person from the doorway who hit me!  Why should he wish to assist us?  Yet, with a gasp of relief, I remember my knife.  I’ve not yet had occasion to use it, but circumstances appear to warrant its use, and quick.

The hands release me the moment I begin to slash at the clutching fingers.  Howls emit from the low window as I hurry Annie away from the spot. 

“Best to stay on t’other side from now on when you pass by here,” the voice says.  “And keep your knife at the ready.”

“Thanks,” I manage to breathe.  Annie clings to my side and I try to comfort her best as I can while still clutching my knife, wary of my so-called protector, the one who punched me only moments before.  I pray he can’t see how I tremble head to foot.

“You’ve naught to eat I warrant?  That child is like to blow away in a gust of wind,” the man says.  “Come.”  

He returns to his doorway and I hear the scrape and click of a key turning in a lock.  I remain where I am, unsure, but Annie tugs at my skirts, and my stomach is as empty as the old, long abandoned chapel at the end of the street, so reluctantly, I follow.

Inside, the man lights a taper and sets it on a low wooden table.  He shuffles to another room and I look about me, keeping one hand on the knife and another on Annie’s shoulder, ready to flee at any moment.  No telling what my protector really wants.  It’s what I’ve learned in the Close these past few days.  Trust no one.

The room is bare and worn.  The stone walls weep with moisture and cold seeps through to my bones.  I’ve yet to see a fire here, though I know everyone must feel the chill as I do.  Winter will be upon us soon.  We must not remain here when the snows come.  How will we survive then, out in the street?

“Sit,” the man grunts, as he shuffles back into the room carrying a trencher of bread and cheese.  My mouth waters at the sight.  With a cry, Annie darts over and seizes a bit of bread, stuffing it into her mouth.

“Easy, little mouse,” the man chuckles.  “Go slow or it will like as not come back out.  I know that kind of hunger.”

“Do you,” I venture to ask, reaching with a shaky hand for a bit of cheese.  I wolf it down in a manner that I know would have shocked my genteel sister, so proper and dignified.  Pushing away the memory of her face, I reach for another piece.

“Aye,” the man says.   Then he takes his own bit of bread and sits, ignoring us as he munches. 

I study the man by the light of the candle.  Close-cropped white hair caps his skull like a pile of fine, ashy snow.  Lined and rough, his face is much like that of everyone around here, and yet there is something in his bearing that seems…proud?  Happy?  No, that cannot be!  Not here!  Yet, the man’s thin shoulders are not bowed, though it is apparent he has lived long years.  He is not worn down by the poverty and despair that cows so many who live here.  His face, though crinkled as a shriveled potato and red with cold, is calm.  No darkness clouds his countenance.  Instead, his eyes, peering out as they do from between folds of ancient skin, glow a startling, sapphire blue. 

I do not understand this.  People here are…angry.  Angry and poorer than the dirt beneath their feet.

I used to come here; well, I correct myself as I seize another bit of bread, I used to come to the head of the street at the entrance to the Close.  It was up the hill near Shaw’s bakery, where I would go with my sister Cinaed to hand out food from the baskets Mrs. Harris would prepare on Sundays.  We were proud to say that we fed the poor.  I used to shrink from the grabbing, dirt-encrusted fingers that reached for the pitiful offerings we so officiously gave. 

Now, my own filthy hands are grateful for any bit of food they can find.

A wheezy chuckle interrupts my musings.

“You dinnae belong here,” the man says, dipping his head at me.

“How do you know?” I say, keeping my fingers curled about the knife that rests in my lap.

“I know who you are, Poisoner.  We all do.  You’re that lass what murdered her sister up in New Town.”

Index Cards, Glue Sticks, and Google Earth: My Eclectic Creative Process

 

I’ve loved books all my life, and about seven years ago, I decided that I wanted to move from being solely a reader to trying my hand at writing.  So, I signed up for an online class and began to write short stories and articles.  Then, not long after I began the class, I decided that I wanted to write a novel.  It was a crazy, kind of half-embarrassed, secret desire that I’d kept hidden for a long time.  I wanted to be a “Writer,” and a real Writer, with a capital W, was in my mind someone who wrote novels.

So, I started.  And I stopped.  Then, in a month or so, I started again.  And I stopped.  And so it went, for about a year.

At that point, I began to worry that I’d convinced myself to do something that was simply beyond my capacities.  Who was I to think that I could write a book?  But I kept trying.  I ended up taking a one-day workshop at a local community college where the instructor, a published author, shared some of her techniques that helped her plan her novels.  She had this silly-sounding suggestion about novel writing.  You start with an idea, and start to brainstorm from there.  Using  a pile of index cards, you write down an idea for a single scene on each card.  Then, once you’ve come up with all you can think of at the moment, you organize your cards   Voila!  Instant novel outline!

Yeah, right, I though.  But I gave it a try.  And, presto, change-o, a la peanut butter sandwiches, it worked for me!  Ideas that had been percolating and simmering in my brain for a while gelled and I was able to write down a whole bunch of genuine scenes and/or action sequences that somehow worked with my original story idea.  I added cards for possible characters and character names, and used cards to list setting ideas for various scenes as well.  I taped them onto the wall next to the computer.  My husband thought I was weird.  But I got my first novel written.  An entire draft of a novel!  Thirty-three chapters!  59,000 words.  I was thrilled.

I won’t go into great detail as to how I revised this novel.  That would take far too long.  Suffice it to say that my novel-writing habit was born.   A few other tricks have worked well and stuck with me.  I’m a very visual person, who likes to imagine what her characters look like, brainstorm random things like what they might carry in their pockets or what their favorite food is, and I also love to scrapbook.  So, I now create “binders” for each novel I write.  I search free photo sites and find pics of people whom I think most match what my characters look like in my head, and create my own fake book covers.  Enter the glue sticks!  (Acid free, of course). 

 

I use copious quantities of index cards and sticky notes to keep track of where my story is heading or new ideas that pop into my brain, and use the binder to keep all of my notes and research.  Then, when my draft is done, I print the book out in tiny font and put that into the binder as well.  That printed draft is a revision tool I use to help me fix what needs a’fixin’, y’all.  I read my work out loud and take notes for changes I want to make.  I love my binders!

I’ve also developed a new, odd research habit when I write.  I like to choose a setting and use Google Earth to view satellite images of the actual place.  Weird, I know, and I feel a bit like a virtual peeping Tom, but it works well for me.  Even if I’m writing a historical novel, I still Google the place where my story occurs and take “screen shots,” capturing images of the layout of the landscape.  That way, I know that my main character will soon hit foothills and then tall mountains if he heads south when trying to escape, how far the ocean might be from another main character’s front door, or whether or not the view from the house will likely be of a thick forest, red-tiled rooftops, or a whole lot of desert.

These techniques may or may not work for you, but they have for me.  I’ve now written and extensively revised three novels, have somewhat non-extensively revised a fourth, and am in the middle of writing a fifth book.  (I don’t count an incomplete draft that was meant to be a parody of Wuthering Heights.  Luckily, I realized that I needed to jump from that sinking ship). 

I remain, as of yet, a “pre-published” author.  (Insert smiley face here).  But I continue to send out queries to agents, and so far have two agents who have requested to read the full manuscript of one of my books.  Who knows?  Maybe my binders, my scrapbooking and my fanatical use of glue sticks will one day result in seeing one of my books on a bookstore shelf. 

Or not. But I’ll still keep writing.  The index card and glue stick industries depend on me.

 

 

 

 

Photo Book

http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0AcM2TJs5atmb5Y&cid=SFLYOCWIDGET

She's My Daughter, Not My BFF

I love books and so does my eleven year old daughter.  Over the past few years I’ve introduced her to many of my favorites and am always thrilled when she loves a story that’s dear to me.  When she was younger, I loved to read Winnie the Pooh out loud and see her smile.  As she grew older, she graduated to the Harry Potter series and the Chronicles of Narnia.  She loves these books and I’m so glad she does.

But all is not well for us in Literature Land.  I love historical novels, she hates them.  Immensely.  Why?  “They’re boring.”  So much for getting her to read “The Island of the Blue Dolphins,” or “The Witch of Blackbird Pond,” books that shaped my childhood.  Sniff.   Even worse, my daughter loves a series of books called “Warriors,” about clans of cats living in the forest who are constantly at war with each other.  Yes, this series truly exists, and it’s popular.  Do I like those books?  Well….not so much. 

This used to bother me, until I realized something.  There’s a fine line between sharing what you love with your child and trying to make your child into a little “Mini Me.”  No matter how hard we might try to make them exactly like us, our children have their own minds and unique personalities, and won’t like everything their parents do.  Odd, I know.

So, lately I’ve noticed that other parents seem to be trying to do exactly what I was trying to do with my daughter.  Examples? 

Sure, but keep in mind these are generalizations, gleaned from many online posts I’ve seen lately, not based on any specific person.  Really.  J

“My 2  year-old just loves to watch "The Lord of the Rings."  It’s his favorite movie, and he can’t even say the title yet.  It’s so cute.”

Cute, maybe.  But even if he really DOES love that movie, is it something he SHOULD be watching at his age? 

“Here’s little Ewan with his Dad, heading out for another Civil War reenactment.  Doesn’t he look precious in his costume?

Precious, yes.  Happy?  No.

Or:  “My 8 year old daughter and I loved all the Twilight books and now we can’t wait to see "Breaking Dawn" together.”

Um…ew.  Again, is that a movie your 8 year old really should be seeing?  Even if she WANTS to see it?

I’m old enough that the term “BFF” (best friends forever) was not an entry in the Dictionary of Modern Slang  when I was a child.  I was introduced to that term by my daughter who has her own BFF’s, all girls her age.  At times, my daughter and her BFF’s laugh at things that are completely incomprehensible to me.  And they often laugh at me.  This is exactly as it should be. 

Why?

Because I’m the Mom.  My daughter is not a perfect copy of me.  She’s her own person AND she needs time to grow up and mature at a pace that is right for her, not in a fast forward mode forced upon her by parents who want to be “buddies” with their kids.

So, sometimes my daughter and I do fun things together.  We cuddle and giggle while we watch another of Studio C’s hilarious takes on Harry Potter.  Then, there are times when she slams the door and pouts when I remind her that she hasn’t practiced piano yet or finished all of her homework. 

I love her, but she’s not my BFF.  And that’s okay with me.

Write What You Know...Yeah, Right!

 

 

I hear “write what you know” all the time.  I hear it quite often from people who don’t write at all but who want to share their opinions with me and this is typically Advice Snippet Number One they share when imparting their wisdom.  I’ve heard this phrase on TV and I know I’ve likely read it many times on writing blogs, articles, and in the many books on writing that are out there.  Know what?  It’s always bugged me, but I couldn’t figure out why until recently, thanks to Pinterest.  Yes, Pinterest.  Yes, I’m on there.  A lot.  But anyway…

A writer friend recently pinned this quote:  “I want to be very clear about this:  if you wrote from experience, you’d get maybe one book, maybe three poems.    Writers write from empathy.”  Nikki Giovanni

Yes!!  That’s it!!!  I felt pretty silly that I didn’t figure this one out before.  Maybe I never “got it” because I spend too much time on Pinterest looking up the Next Greatest Recipe for cheesy chicken enchiladas that will make my life complete, but I’d never been able to move past the guilt-ridden, slightly embarrassed feeling that I was a terrible fraud for not “Writing What I Know.”   I set novels in cities I’ve never been to and in time periods I’ve not personally experienced, and I write characters who are nothing like me.  (Thank goodness.)  Well, all I can say is after reading the above quote, the way I write and the things I write began to make much more sense to me. 

Writers write from empathy.  Of course they do!!  Does Nicholas Sparks know what it’s like to be a woman in love?  Does Stephen King know what it’s like to be a vicious killer?  Does Stephanie Meyer know what it’s like to be a sparkly vampire?  Does Alan Bradley know what it’s like to be a snarky, precocious eleven-year old girl genius?  Does Suzanne Collins know what it’s like to shoot another human being with a bow and arrow?  I truly hope not, on all counts.

What these and all writers understand is the human condition.  They know love in its many forms.  They know fear, jealousy, anger, hatred, the threat of violence.  They understand what it’s like to have dreams that are unfulfilled and still sought after, the desire for acceptance.  They understand hope.

I can now breathe a sigh of relief and go right on creating characters who don’t live where I live, look like me or have the same opinions.  Even better, I can make up a new world if I want to, or write about a place I’ve always wanted to go.   Why?  Because I’m a human being and I can create an entire universe using my imagination and my ability to empathize with others. 

So…it’s okay for me to Google 17^th century Japanese samurai, the city of Nice, France, advances in nanotechnology, or late 19^th century body-snatching practices for something I’m writing.  It’s okay for me, a soft-spoken woman, to create characters who are loud-mouthed and obnoxious.  It’s okay for me to create male, female, white or black (or whatever race I want them to be) characters.  It’s okay for me to write about people who lived millennia ago or eons in the future.  It’s okay because I’ve give myself permission to create them.  It’s okay because I’m a writer, and writers don’t have to “write what they know.”

I feel validated.  Yay for Pinterest!