23 November, 2009

A world outside my window

This is a tale about the journey of a thought. Yesterday, as I stood at my kitchen sink I looked out the windows as I’ve done every day for the past eight years. My view has changed some during that time. A trendy mocha paint replaced the sugar pink on the house next door, a new privacy fence replaced a dilapidated one, and my neighbors removed the diseased walnut tree from their back yard last spring. Now, from my window I can see three sky-scraping palm trees in a yard two streets north.

Three in a faraway land.

I’ve said hello to these trees for months now. I’ve watched them sway with the wind. I like the natural symmetry of three, and that from my perspective the middle one is the shortest and stands slightly closer to the tallest. But these trees never inspired my writer’s mind until yesterday.

As I waited for the water to run hot, I looked out the window and when the palms caught my eye, I heard the words, over there lies Marrakesh.

With that, the floodgates opened and my mind filled with sights and sounds and tastes: the crowds in the souk by day and the square by night; oranges, saffron, and mint; a plaintive wail—a call to prayer … a plea for help … a lover’s lament? I’m not quite sure, but I believe there’s a poem, a story, or even a novel coming forth.

Because in my soul lies Marrakesh. 

21 November, 2009

Speak louder, please

I dreamed about Sean Penn last night. I stood at the doors to a huge auditorium or theater and someone tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned around, he was standing behind me. He said, “Thank you.” Then he walked in the theater with his entourage. After I recovered from surprise, I realized I had no idea what he was thanking me for and called after him. He had moved too far away to hear, so I stepped through the doors, fully expecting the security guards to stop me. Lo and behold, they let me go.

Why so troubled?

I caught up with Mr. Penn and asked him why he had thanked me. Because this was a dream, he walked back up the aisle with me and out the doors. He talked the whole time, but so quietly, I couldn’t make out what he said. At one point, I realized that he was only a head … on the floor … and I figured that was why I couldn’t hear him. I got down on my knees, but still couldn’t make out what he said.

This was not the Jeff Spicoli Penn, nor the Willie Stark Penn. This was the I’ll-settle-it-with-my-fists Penn—smart, but troubled. I felt desperate to hear what he said because I knew I had helped him before and needed to help him again.

Suddenly, his head was back on his body, and as we walked, I glanced over and realized his scalp had a large gash. Blood ran down his face and neck, and I convinced him to let me take him to the hospital for stitches. From the hospital, I took him to my home (not any place I’ve ever actually lived) still feeling the anxiety that it was imperative I keep him with me and talking.

Inexplicably, I was searching for a needle with the right-sized eye for the piece of black thread in my hand … when the alarm sounded!

Despite the abrupt ending, I think there is plenty here to interpret. I’m sure this pertains to my writing. I rarely think of Sean Penn and haven’t heard him mentioned recently, so I think Penn showing up in my dream is meant as a pun. Now, what I have to decide is whether pen represents me as the writer … or my writing in general … or some part of the novel I just finished writing (or didn’t.)

I wish he’d spoken louder. Any lip readers out there?

 

20 November, 2009

How do you know your characters’ names?

Today, I’m pondering where character names come from. I recently read a few short stories I’d written—or started to write—a few years ago. In one story, in place of the main character’s name, I’d used GIRL. I could “see” the character, I just couldn’t “hear” her name. I never finished writing that story.

In The Brevity of Roses, the novel I just finished (ahem) writing, I have three major characters. One woman I’ve named Meredith and though I saw her clearly, I had to think for her name. The younger woman I first named Kristen because of the “type” I see when I hear it, but, except for her gender, Kristen was the opposite of the character who is now Renee. I wish I had kept a book diary because now I can’t quite remember the sequence of events that led to such a radical change in my storyline. But when the character changed, so did the name.

My third, and main, character in the novel is of middle-eastern descent. He announced his name. As I’ve said in previous posts, the core idea for this story came from a dream. No one had names in the dream. When I thought about writing a short story based on this dream, I knew I would have to have a scene where the older woman met the man. As I started to craft this scene, I used WOMAN as a name placeholder for her, but when I got to the point where I wrote the line where the man introduces himself, I heard: I am Jalal. There you go. I love the sound of it. I love the way it feels in my mouth. Unfortunately, I’ve found that it’s not so easily pronounced by some people—my sister for one. She now has my permission to simple refer to him as J.

I think it’s important to have the name “fit” the character. Most of us would instantly picture Tony Randall in The Odd Couple if we read the name Felix. And none of us is likely to name a character Oprah, Madonna, or Cher without knowing the image it would evoke—not to mention probable litigation. But we also want to avoid naming a character Kaitlyn if the story takes place during the Civil War. By the way, the U.S. Census bureau has a site to help us find popular character names by decade, year, or even state of birth.

I have a superstition about using the names of family members, or even people I know well, as character names. Obviously, that limits my choices. Sometimes I resort to the open-the-book/magazine/newspaper-and-point method … though I may have to point several times before I find a name that fits. Of course, you’ll never please every reader. To me, Meredith conjures a picture of beauty and refinement, but you might know a foul-mouthed, smelly, terror of a woman with that name. If so, I can only hope you’ll succeed in wiping that image from your mind when you read my novel.

Do you have any methods to share for choosing character names?

18 November, 2009

Free prose day!

Today’s post doesn’t really have much to do with writing, though I’m calling it free prose. That’s not the same as stream of consciousness; I would never subject you to that.

Juan, Henry, and Margaret

I grow roses … well, for the most part this last year, I neglected roses, but still they bloomed. Yesterday I cut a few. I don’t usually do that this late in the season because I like to let them go dormant for a couple months, but roses that bloom in cool weather have the sweetest fragrance, and I needed a lift. In the bouquet pictured, I have Don Juan (red), Henry Fonda (yellow) and Margaret Merrill (white) and though the yellow doesn’t usually have much scent, and the red much less than the white, they’re all scenting the room as I write.

My work station?

I have not done so well on my NaHoCleMo challenge. The reward of a spotless house, including cupboards, closets, and drawers, is not enough to goad me into the nearly three hours of daily work I need to keep on goal. Actually, it’s not so much the cleaning that gets me down, it’s the deciding. I don’t know what to do with piles of stuff when I pull it out of those cupboards, closets, and drawers. I like to blame it on being born under the sun sign of Libra … you know, being able to see all sides and trying to be fair in my judgment. Should I keep this? Should I give it away? Should I toss it? It’s that inability to decide that clutters my house in the first place. That, and my mother cleaning my childhood bedroom and throwing away all my little “collections” which she apparently mistook for trash. I’ve battled with keeping MY STUFF ever since. Ah, well …

In what sense are we lost?

I know this question is “out there” but is it possible that time is speeding up? I’ve been thinking that it’s only because I’m getting older. And cruel joke that—the less time you have left the faster it’s used up! But I’ve heard people far younger than I make the same observation. Of course, with that in mind, we could veer off into questioning what time is, which would make my head spin, so let’s don’t. Although … that does remind me of the show LOST and how I so wish I could figure it out before they reveal it all this next season.

All right, I’ve blathered long enough, but at least free prose is … well … free.

17 November, 2009

Perhaps I am a loaf of bread

“I am raining down in pieces. I am scattering like light.”

That quote is from Suzanne Vega’s song “Small Blue Thing” which I rediscovered while sorting my CDs. And it perfectly describes my current state of mind. I don’t seem to be able to concentrate on anything. The least thing distracts me. I am scattered in pieces.

bread This is a state of emptiness, I think. A time to refill, to soak in, to expand and solidify. This feeling reminds me of a familiar process. Usually, three times a week, I make bread. I mix the flours, water, salt, yeast, and oil and I knead it, let it rise, punch it down, let it rise again, form it into a loaf, let it rise once more, and then bake. When that loaf is eaten, I start the process over.

You can try to hurry the bread-making process—knead it less, skip a rising—but you won’t get the beautiful loaf you expect. Right now, I am scattered. I am in the ingredients stage. I need to be patient and let the “magic” happen.

15 November, 2009

When it rains, it pours

morton_saltI’m sure most of you recognize the Morton Salt logo. The second “it” in that catch phrase refers to the salt, but in this post title it refers to the number of story ideas I’ve had lately. A month ago, I lamented that I had no idea what to write next. Then I found some old notes I’d written for a story and decided to try expanding the idea to novel length. Soon after, NaHoCleMo started and I haven’t managed to write much.

What I have had time to do, while I’ve been cleaning, is think. In looking over the files on the disk I found “lost” in my supply closet, I saw how many of those stories or ideas were darker than what I’ve been writing in the past year and a half. And then I saw a good horror movie and now my mind is swirling with dark ideas. I had a new one just yesterday when I took a nap. Now I have to make a decision whether to develop one of those ideas as a horror novel or keep working on the literary novel I started. Another option is to keep working on the literary novel and develop some of the new ideas into short stories. Then, of course, I could just go back to my original plan to edit my first horror novel.

Yeah, when it rains, it pours. Tell me, how do you choose what to write next?

14 November, 2009

A little thought

caution

child at risk

eyes
not yet blinded
see

ears
not yet deafened
hear

hearts
not yet hardened
break

 

 

Copyright © 2009 Linda Cassidy Lewis

12 November, 2009

Paranormal activity?

Yesterday, I went to see the movie Paranormal Activity. I had the best time possible while being terrorized—and eating Junior Mints! I have never experienced such tension. It took me ten minutes, after the movie ended, to get my breathing back to normal and longer than that before my muscles completely relaxed. (For you movie critics out there, yes, I could have done without the last thirty or so seconds of Hollywood cheese.)
paranormal_activity

Obviously, I love a good horror movie. And by good, I don’t mean the movies that are just an excuse to show a thousand gruesome ways to kill someone, I like the ones that play with your mind. The ones that maybe … just might … could possibly … really happen. Last year’s The Strangers was another movie I loved though, again, I think it ended two scenes too late.

A psychological element to the horror is far more interesting to me. I love walking a “what if” thought into the darkness. I have that kink in my mind. Every time I stand at the ocean’s edge feeling the wind and sun or mist, gazing out over the endless sea, I always have this thought: what if something HUGE rose up before me?

tule fog
Sometimes on winter nights, we have fog so thick you can’t see the front of your car as you’re driving. On those nights, I’m never quite sure my car won’t drive right into another dimension. When, in rare moments, I realize I hear no sounds at all, I fear time has frozen and I quickly look out the window to make sure I can see something moving. Once, while hiding in the dark bathroom, moaning like a cartoon ghost to fun-scare the kids, I frightened myself so, with the sense that something stood behind me, that I had to turn on the light and stop the game.

I’m telling you this because I’ve been thinking about writing horror again. Cold and dreary winter is almost as good as dark and stormy nights for writing dark tales. There’s an art to probing into that visceral layer where blackness rages, then pulling back into the light at just the right second. The dark half in me knows she will never master that art, but she needs to purge her thoughts about what really goes bump in the night.

10 November, 2009

When the time is right

cleaningYou never know what you’ll find when you clean house. I have now made it most of the way around my “workroom.” This is where I write, do genealogy research, make jewelry, draw, and do whatever else requires a big table or a computer. Every inch of this room is occupied. Also in this room are two deep closets crammed with … well, a lot of stuff. I’ve now cleaned and organized those two closets.

I found a dozen errant beads that had rolled off my workbench and under the doors. I found the pack of mechanical pencils that I knew I’d bought but never opened. And I found a bag of a ten or so new bottles of craft paint that had been “lost” inside the bag of felt pieces. But the best find was in a box in the office supply closet. I found old computer disks.

disksOn two of the disks, I found some of my old writing files, and I’m working up the nerve to open them. Others are files from the first two online critique groups I belonged to in 2000. As soon as I saw the writers’ names, I remembered the plots of the books they were working on at the time. I did some research and found out that, of the three writers I worked most closely with in those groups, two of them have been published and the third mentors other published writers.

So, of course, I asked myself where I might be now, if I hadn’t let life get the better of me. Just as quickly, I let that go. I reminded myself that I believe all things happen for a reason. I’m where I’m supposed to be right now.

I was a different person then. I hadn’t read some of the books I needed to read. I hadn’t met some of the people I needed to know. I hadn’t experienced some of the things I needed to to enable me to write what I can write now. So I’ll let go my envy and I’ll practice patience. My time will come.

9 November, 2009

Of plans, and cows, and whatnot …

Cow_head_standDid you ever have one of those days where you feel like you stood on your head all day? That was my day. The brilliant (ahem) post that I intended to write flew south with all my other plans for today. I spent the first half of the day driving back and forth across town and dealing with people face to face … so you know that was stressful.

Then it took me two hours to decompress from that, while fielding phone calls and emails. What I planned to write, I didn’t. And what I didn’t plan to write, I did. And even what I had hoped to clean is still a mess.

So, maybe you could just look at the cow picture and laugh. Forget I was even here.