I had a hankering for the simpler life this week so I headed on up the Pennsylvania Turnpike to celebrate the 4th of July in Bright's Pond. There is no better place on earth to recharge my batteries and reconnect with what is truly important in life—mosquito repellant, smiles, hand churned peach ice cream and slow moving traffic.
And I am happy to report that once again, the Bright's Pond Fourth of July celebration was a resounding success. The weather was perfect. Crystal clear cerulean skies with the occasional fluffy white cloud was a welcome guest after all the rain they've been getting. There were only a couple of incidents this year, not the least of which was Ivy Slocum's dog getting loose during the parade. He chased Babette Sturgis in her Lady Liberty costume clear down Filbert Street, passed The Full Moon Café and finally cornered her on the steps of the library. Nobody got hurt in the chase but Babette's torch was broken and her crown got smashed under Nate Kincaid's tractor. Of course, that nasty Eugene Shrapnel got some ugly delight in watching this and he took the opportunity to hurl insults at Ivy. Ivy, being the pillar of strength that she is got off a few volleys of her own giving new meaning to the phrase, "bombs bursting in air."
The Dixie Land Band from Shoops marched in full dress uniform playing Stars and Stripes Forever as best they could considering poor old Cluster Carmichael passed out as they rounded Filbert from blowing into his tuba too hard and too long. Doc Flaherty revived Cluster and made him sit out for the rest of the route. I last saw him sitting on the curb with his wife Collette fanning him with a church bulletin she excavated from her massive handbag—honestly it's the size of a bed pillow.
And speaking of church, Pastor Speedwell, his wife Darcy and their boys rode in an antique hay wagon pulled by four of Farmer Higgins' prized studs. Darcy seemed scared and kept yanking young John back inside the wagon. Pastor waved like a five and dime store mechanical Santa as the other boys tossed penny candies to the children lining the parade route.
After them, came Prudence Parsnipple, this year's Corn Queen. My, my but she looked so pretty in her bright yellow dress with a green lace collar and buttons and delightful green and yellow bonnet. She rode on a new, cherry red 1973 Ford Mustang Convertible advertising Barsons Ford Dealership in Shoops on the side. Rumor has it that she stuffed her bodice with socks to fill out the dress but no one has had the nerve to try and prove it, although several of the high school boys have volunteered their services. She waved with a wave worthy of Queen Elizabeth with her nose in the air and her breasts at attention and saluting every flag that went by.
The Bright's Pond junior and senior high school marching band came down the street playing their version of Anchors Away. They looked sharp and spit polished in brand new maroon and white uniforms with brass epaulets and buttons—a gift from Mrs. Liola Snipwhistle. Once again, The Society of Angelic Philanthropy was the talk of the community with this year's float entry—Betsy Ross and America's First Flag. They looked so proud in their hand-made period costumes, waving their little Stars and Stripes. The other float entry of note was titled Amber Waves of Grain. It was a beautiful stage depicting the wheat harvest with purple mountains majesty painted on cardboard as a backdrop. Town council members Studebaker Kowalski, Boris Lender, Bill Tompkins and Jasper York (Bright's Pond's oldest veteran) rode. I heard Eugene Shrapnel say, "Here comes the jackass float," as it passed by. Eugene does not harbor fondness for the town council.
And of course, no 4th of July celebration is complete without a proper picnic. We all gathered at the pond behind The Sparrow Funeral House for the barbecue. It was a fine time with traditional picnic food, fun and games. There were burgers and dogs on the grill. The grill team was headed up by Studebaker Kowalski. They got a corn boil going in a large cauldron over an open fire. Beans, pre-baked by the Society of Angelic Philanthropy, rested in large ceramic bowls with large spoons tucked deep inside, and my oh my, the pies lining the dessert table about took my breath away. But the highlight was of course the pie and jam competitions. Zeb Zewickey took first place, yet again, for his Full Moon Pie—a luscious lemon meringue. But in an upset at the jelly and jam table, Hazel Flatbush took the blue ribbon (all ribbons donated by the Scranton Ribbon and Trophy Company) with her Backwoods Blackberry Delight unseating five-time winner Ruth Knickerbocker.
Punctuating the day was, of course, the fireworks display. Everyone walked together down to the schoolyard carrying punks, sparklers and flashlights, blankets and beach towels. It was quite a pretty sight, I must say, all those people joyfully making their way down Filbert Street with many points of light dotting the way. At one point Janeen Sturgis burst into an impromptu rendition of Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing. She was quickly joined by other melodious voices.
The fireworks went off without a hitch, except for that one ground display that had a mind of its own and Doc Flaherty was once again called upon to treat Ruth Knickerbocker for a second-degree burn on her left cheek, um, the one she sits on. That's right she moved suddenly and then sat down on some flaming fall-out. Ruth was not having a good day.
The show ended with an amazing grand finale display that lasted a whole six minutes featuring parachutes, chrysanthemums, cones, glitters and jumping jacks that lit up the night and brought cheers from everyone there. I took that as my signal to head on home with the sounds of the locals, "oohs and ahhs," ringing in my happy ears.
I've been saying it for a while. I have a parakeet who thinks she's a chicken. Perhaps you scoffed at this but it's true. That's her in the picture with one of the many egg she has laid. It all started about ten months ago and at first I thought it was just some weird thing birds did. Of course there is nothing viable in the egg what with no daddy bird around, at least that I know of, unless there is some don juan bird sneaking in at night but the likelihood of that is silly. So my bird is producing these eggs all by herself. It really is pretty pathetic. She is so proud of herself. She lays her egg and tells me all about it then jumps down onto the floor of her cage and sits on it and cuddles it and gently tucks it under her wing until I reach my big old fat hand in there and snatch it and toss it in the garbage. Yikes. But, I have no choice. It's just not a ready for prime time egg.
When this first started happening I did a little research and discovered that it's pretty normal but it was only supposed to last for a season, a short while. My crazy bird has been laying eggs regularly for almost a year now. Imagine that, she's laid somewhere around 40 eggs and none of them produced a chick for her to care for. Well, being a writer and all I decided to draw the obvious writerly analogy between writing and non-viable egg-laying. It happens.
I suppose I've laid approximately seven million non-viable eggs over the past few years. Word by word, egg by egg I've persisted pretty much everyday writing words that I loved and tucked under my wing and cared for until some giant fickle finger of fate came along and flicked it away. My eggs, like Bird's, did not have anything inside that was ready for prime time. Oh, the shell was there, they looked nice, even sounded nice but the guts, the truth, the heart of the matter was missing. But I didn't stop producing. I had too. Just like Bird. She can't help it right now. They're inside of her, she has to get them out. Okay, that's gross but you get the concept.
Non-viable egg-laying is a lot like writing. You put your words out there, they get rejected but you keep laying more because one day, one wonderful day an editor is going to come along who sees the potential and takes you and your egg under her wing and cares for it and you, nurturing, loving and working really really hard to produce a beautiful new bird that will soar to to the top of Best-Seller lists. Keep those eggs coming.
It happened yesterday. I fell in love with my characters. This is not as crazy as it sounds. It is a good thing. A very good thing. It's hard to say why it all of a sudden happens. I can start a new novel and know in my guts that it's a good story. The characters have appeal but it isn't until I start to love them that I can relax and let them tell their side of things. The writing becomes easier.
I can tell you exactly when it happened yesterday. I wrote this:
The trailer door needed the usual hip action. Lucky leaped onto my waist and licked my face. "It's okay, boy. I’m okay." Then I sat down on the sofa, dropped my handbag on the floor and cried. I sat there and blubbered with Lucky's paw on my knee and his brown eyes staring up at me as if he wanted to say, "Maybe moving to Paradise wasn't such a good idea, Charlotte."
No, it's not funny or all that poignant. Not really. It is not even a pivotal moment in the plot. It's just a snippet of time in which Charlotte, determined to start a softball team is feeling a little over-whelmed. Only Lucky, her dog witnesses this moment. And I love her for that.
I think it is vital for an author to love her characters, to know them inside and out and truly care about them, think about them, maybe even pray for them, or at least for the story. I pray often that God will help me write, help me understand my characters. Because for me, the characters come first, then the story. I'm not saying character is more important. That would be absurd. It's just the way I roll.
Fictional characters are sometimes more alive and more real to an author than living, breathing, blood-pumping people because we know them so completely. Nothing is hidden, or, I should say, remains hidden between author and character. The author will always get to the heart, the truth of the matter.
I can't imagine that I am unique. It just makes good sense that when an author knows, understands and loves her characters it will make for a better novel. Now I know it might sound silly but you have to remember that authors give life and invest hours and hours in building their characters so I suppose feeling as though we have a relationship with them is only a natural outcome. This is why we cry when we have to kill off a character. It's very hard to let them go but we also know that the story demands it, so we do it. Shut our eyes and pull the trigger because the story demands it.
Hemingway said, "When writing a novel, authors should create people, not characters. Characters are caricatures."
So how about it? Do you love your characters?
Most folks who know me know that one of my all time favorite poets is Emily Dickinson. Her image, a Barry Moser original, hangs above my writing table. I even named my second daughter for her. I discovered Emily when I was young and although I didn't quite understand most of what she was saying, I fell in love. I knew there were secrets and sneaky meanings wrapped around each carefully chosen word and couplet. I knew she was trying to tell me something. And although I've learned to read poetry better since then, and I've come to understand her poetry in ways I didn't before, I still marvel at each one. Like this one:
The Savior must have been
A docile Gentleman—
To come so far so cold a Day
For little Fellowmen—
The Road to Bethlehem
Since He and I were Boys
Was leveled, but for that 'twould be
A rugged Billion Miles—
People have been reading my novel. Ha! What a blast. I'm so excited because up until now it has only been read by friends. Now don't get me wrong, I love hearing how much my friends enjoyed my book (I respect them enough to know they're truthful) and most of my friends are people, but hearing it from strangers who don't have any stock in my life whatsoever is all the more tasty. My favorite morsel is when someone says, "I actually laughed out loud." Or, "I cried when Vidalia . . ." Well I won’t spoil the plot. But suffice it to say I am tickled to hear that my words are making folks laugh AND cry.
Lately people have been asking me how I come up with things, or how I wrote a scene. Um, I've been scratching my funny bone on this one folks. I don't know, not really. It just comes out funny sometimes. Funny is knowing the difference between a paper cut and a paper cut with a twist of lemon.
So I decided to take a look at humor and writing and try to figure it out. Emphasis on the word try. I love what Sid Caser said, "Comedy has to based on truth. You take the truth and put a little curlicue on the end." Curlicues are fun. I can do curlicues. Curlicues are what separate a Dairy Queen soft serve from a scoop of vanilla. And I defy you to find anyone who does not go for the twist on the top first.
Life is tough and sometimes the only way to get from one end of the day to the next without slitting our wrists is with laughter, with daring to look at ourselves, our situation, our mother-in-law, the five pound trout in the toilet (so proud of my son) and give it a little squiggle. Laughter sweetens sorrow so we can swallow it.
This is why I loved and still do love the TV show M*A*S*H. I think it was one of the most well-written sitcoms ever. The writers were genius at balancing just enough laughter with the horrible pathos and tragedy of war so that we weren't drowning in blood and unrelenting sadness nor falling down clutching our sides and vomiting from so much laughter. Here's a free lesson: Too much laughter is not a good thing. No one can laugh all the time. I think our brains would explode. We have to temper the funny with enough tragedy to keep both hemispheres pulsing at top form. We need both.
So, how do you put humor into your novel without annoying your readers with too much laughter or making him or her kick the dog though the hedges from pathos overload? I don't know.
Seriously, I mean there is no formula. I don't think funny can be taught like say, riding a bike or brain surgery. But it seems to me that it has something to do with the unexpected. We laugh because we weren't expecting something to happen. That's why it is so darn funny when someone slips on a banana peel and falls down a manhole. It's unexpected. We are taken by surprise. Of course moments later when the paramedics arrive and the person is rushed away in a body bag, we cry. Balance.
There is a fabulous episode of the original Dick Van Dyke Show where Rob explains this to a first grade class. Wonderful stuff. Rob is priceless as he pretty much beats the crap out of himself to make a point, a very funny point about the unexpected.
For me, finding that surprise, the curlicue is refusing to accept the ordinary and discovering a way to say the same thing with a twist. Sometimes it means combining words that don't necessarily belong together, choosing a word that just sounds funnier, juxtaposing two things in an uncommon way, or looking for the unusual trapped inside the usual. I believe comedy is buried in the words and ideas, the writer simply needs to chip away at a sentence or a scene until the funny is revealed. Kind of like Michelangelo insisting that the angel was already in the rock. He just had to reveal her. Um, I could chip away at a rock for years and believe me no angel will appear, just a lot of smaller rocks all over the floor. But then again, rock isn’t my medium. Words are my medium and I can tell you with all certainty, words are funny when put in the correct order.
You already know what makes you laugh. No one is so completely humor-impaired that they have never laughed, well, except my fourth grade teacher—the woman was a wart with legs. That being said, humor is subjective. What makes me smile or chuckle is not necessarily going to make you laugh.
But humor must be natural. If you are searching for the funny and your words keep falling like lead balloons or your scene loses it's flavor because of a bad joke that does not naturally rise out of the character's mind, or the story's purpose, please delete. Failed jokes are torture to the writer and the reader. Story must come first. Even an endometrial biopsy can be funny with a curlicue on the top.
In case you haven't noticed I have not been the most diligent of bloggers. But I am really, really going to try and change that. So here goes. I wanted to tell you all about my most fabulous weekend with a group of writing sisters in a cabin in the woods in a room with a coyote named Chuck. I was privileged to spend time with my most excellent editor, Barbara Scott and a few of the other Abingdon authors. I will admit I was nervous at first. The thought of being holed up in a cabin, in the woods with a group of women I didn't know scared me a little (okay, more than a little). But God is so gracious and has been so good to me that it turned out to be one of the most significant weekends of my life. The bonding was pretty much instant and all my anxieties melted away--well the initial ones. I laughed, I talked, I cried, I shared. Barbara did two workshops with us on editing and character construction. We yakked about marketing and we just plain talked about things that had nothing to do with our novels or writing. But then again, as I've been thinking about it, I saw that even though the stories we shared seemed on the surface to be unrelated to our books or our journey I've come to see that all of those struggles, triumphs, journeys were necessary to us. We would never been the writers we are today had it not been for those moments of terror, times of elation, victorious outcomes and even the grief some of us shared. It all matters. So to Christa I say, thank you for being so funny and willing to face your truth head on. To Cynthia, the new president of ACFW, thank you for sharing your gentle spirit and discernment. Kay, what an incredible life you've had, what amazing adventures. I'm so glad you shared them with us. Even though malaria ain't sweet! Yikes! To Gail who came all the way from Canada. Thank you for being outspoken and happy and for sharing your journey and for just being you, Gail. A woman of great strength and courage. And Jennifer. You shone with the light of a hundred stars. A woman of incomparable strength and fortitude and perseverance. God blesses perseverance. And finally, our editor, Barbara. You are amazing in so many ways, smart and joyful, funny and wise. You shared your time from an outrageously busy schedule and came to the cabin to nurture and minister and bring joy to each and every one of us. I am honored to be counted among this group. Now about Chuck, he just stood there with one paw raised and those beady little eyes darting around the room. But, he kept a watchful vigil over us. Thanks Chuck.
I always miss my father a little bit more on Memorial Day. He was a WWII vet and fought in every major European battle from Normandy to The Battle of The Bulge. Dad carried a little Brownie camera with him throughout his entire tour of duty and pretty much documented his Army career. One of my favorite snaps is of a Belgium family taken shortly after the Allies liberated Belgium. This family was so thrilled to see the Americans march through their town that the wife hurried into her home and retrieved an American Flag she had secretly sewn during the Nazi occupation. She rushed out of the house waving the flag and shouting her hoorahs as the allies marched past. My father stopped and gathered her family proudly displaying this small American flag. Unfortunately and rather sweetly the woman had sewn the flag backwards! But that was okay, she waved it proudly, my father kissed her cheek, snapped the photo and marched on. Years and years later I did an editing job for a woman near my home. She was a poet and had written some poems about her experiences as a little girl in Belgium during WWII and the Nazi occupation. She told me how the Nazis would come into her home and take their blankets and food. She also told me how her family hid people from the Germans until the Allies came and set them free. When I told her my father was in that battle she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "he was my liberator." He probably was.
Thank a soldier today!
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