I chose three different exercises to try: 90 Gifts to Yourself, 94 What’s at Stake?, and 95 Writing Outside the Story and experienced a variety of success with each. First, I tried Gifts to Yourself, and because of this almost changed my story in significant ways. I found that I had mentioned the golden curls of Amy and Gabby frequently throughout the story and toyed with the idea of having these locks reflect the state of mind Amy was in. For instance, while she was grieving and still at home with her family trying to fake the fact that she was ok, I thought about inserting a line having her hair dyed a dark chestnut brown. Then later, as she was being carried out, her head would be shorn of those golden curls. Though in the end I decided against this as I did not want to give the impression Amy was mentally ill, only sick with grief, the exercise did open up my eyes in an unexpected manner. I had thought I would see how I do not provide much detail to the setting or appearance of my characters, something I still think is true; but I also saw how the details that are provided can have the possibility of shaping the meaning in a story.
I next tried What’s at Stake? but did not feel that this particular exercise affected this particular story much. Maybe it could be of use in another story, and I did have fun making a list of my favorite tales and the conflict involved – but I thought Amy’s problems were pretty well defined. I was worried because most of the conflict for Amy is internal, but I think that it doesn’t make it any less relatable – at least I hope it doesn’t…
Finally, my favorite exercise was Writing Outside the Story and I can see myself using it with other stories as it has the ability to provide amazing insights into people (characters) I already thought I knew inside and out. I wrote a letter to Amy’s mom, from her, not long before the ambulance arrived. I loved doing this, and though the contents of that letter do not make it into the story, it helped me to read the tale again with that perspective in mind and make sure that relationship is reflected. I really hope that others can gain insight into Amy without me detailing her heart by revealing that letter. Amy is flawed, a tortured soul who perhaps loved too deeply. I really loved getting to know her and hope others will look on her with compassion and some of the love that she so generously bestowed upon others.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Conversations with a Stranger
I say I remember the details, but technically that would be a lie. Those brief moments of the attack remain a haze – a blessing or a curse I am still unsure of. The police found it to be maddening. “What did you see?” They would keep asking, again and again – each time the compassion in their voice weakening – insistent, continual, as if being pressed enough would cause the fog to dissipate and clarity to return, perhaps even in time for them to kiss the kids goodnight, or to catch Leno or the scores from the late game. Anything but sit here in front of yet another young girl, big eyes frozen wide in a pale face, huddled under a blanket and offering no information in a crime which frankly would most likely remain unsolved.
“The smallest detail could help – just think carefully.” Really, could the smallest details really help? Did they want to know his breath smelled of whiskey mixed with peppermints, or of his voice – soft and sweet with only a hint of mockery and superiority seeping through, whispering so close I felt his dry lips brush against my ear? Baby he called me. “Aw baby you feel so good – why don’t you show me where you keep all that sweetness?” He nuzzled my face. I raised my hand to my cheek as if in a trance – “he had stubble.”
“Great, just great – a man of average height, average weight; race and ethnicity unknown – but he had stubble…” The frustration of the male officer was clear as he shoved his chair back, fingers raking through his hair leaving it standing on end with even rows between.
“That’s good, honey. Real good,” she patted my hand, smiling as if to offer comfort, support but her eyes were dead. To care would be to get too close, it was better to stay detached so as to guard against emotions of pain or rage. I did not blame her – my eyes had died too.
“Can I go now?”
The first light of hope hit his eyes at my question, “I think we got all we need.”
She looked tired. “We have to release her to the custody of her parents. McNally hasn’t been able to get a hold of anyone yet.” What she didn’t say was that my mom had split, left for a new husband, new life and new family, while my dad was, well who knows where.
“The smallest detail could help – just think carefully.” Really, could the smallest details really help? Did they want to know his breath smelled of whiskey mixed with peppermints, or of his voice – soft and sweet with only a hint of mockery and superiority seeping through, whispering so close I felt his dry lips brush against my ear? Baby he called me. “Aw baby you feel so good – why don’t you show me where you keep all that sweetness?” He nuzzled my face. I raised my hand to my cheek as if in a trance – “he had stubble.”
“Great, just great – a man of average height, average weight; race and ethnicity unknown – but he had stubble…” The frustration of the male officer was clear as he shoved his chair back, fingers raking through his hair leaving it standing on end with even rows between.
“That’s good, honey. Real good,” she patted my hand, smiling as if to offer comfort, support but her eyes were dead. To care would be to get too close, it was better to stay detached so as to guard against emotions of pain or rage. I did not blame her – my eyes had died too.
“Can I go now?”
The first light of hope hit his eyes at my question, “I think we got all we need.”
She looked tired. “We have to release her to the custody of her parents. McNally hasn’t been able to get a hold of anyone yet.” What she didn’t say was that my mom had split, left for a new husband, new life and new family, while my dad was, well who knows where.
Friday, May 29, 2009
A glimpse into Amy
“Just wait until you’re a mother, then you’ll understand.”
“Yeah, give it a few years, Amy. You’ll be singing a different tune.” In their laughter, the group representing the female contingent of the small law firm did not notice Amy’s pretty face turning stony, but then quickly giving way to a small smile.
“Maybe” was her only comment as she shrugged her shoulders and turned away from the small gathering, struggling for nonchalance. She could feel the tears pricking the back of her eyelids; a quick duck into the mailroom under the pretense of sorting through the stack of papers she was carrying would give her time to compose, regain some control.
“Shake out of it,” she scolded herself, “you’ve heard worse than this before.” It had to have been the nightmare; it had weakened her defenses so carefully built up over time. “Come on, you know they didn’t mean anything by it and they’re certainly not going to expect you to break down in tears…”
Sunshine, that’s what they called her – though whether it was from the bright, always present smile or the shock of golden red curls she never was quite sure. Being the youngest member of the family owned company, she became almost their pet, their mascot of sorts. “How did we ever survive without you, Amy?” was the continual praise. Still, this indispensability could be reflected more in her paycheck. Amy gave a wobbly attempt at a smile as the random thought floated through her head; she did get paid well, almost too well for being a simple, glorified go-fer. And while her superiors could be demanding, and at times thoughtlessly condescending, she really did like her job and enjoyed serving them. It had been a prayer answered when she had escaped to this pretty little town, running from her past.
Still, comments like those continued to bother her, not just here but with parents everywhere across the globe. What gave them the right to discount her opinion so quickly, so thoroughly? Anger was quickly replacing sorrow, which was good. Anger was her friend, her way back to gaining some self-control. What was it about parents that as soon as they successfully pushed out one child into the world, thought they somehow gained access to this secret club and were rewarded with profound wisdom? Just wait until she was a parent… why couldn’t she matter now? Didn’t they realize that with a background in child psychology, she in fact may be better informed than they? Her anger began to cool and she grimly grinned at the realization that no, they probably didn’t know her true qualifications. When applying, she kept her credentials – though true – to the bare minimum, wanting people to know as little about her as necessary. She had needed a safe haven; somewhere she wouldn’t be confronted with her history everyday, where she wouldn’t have to face the pity in the eyes around her. And this small firm had provided that for her and had in time become her family, though they must have been remarkably lax in their review of her application. Yes, they really did need her. Amy’s grin was a bit more genuine now, authentic enough for her to leave the mailroom behind and go finish out her day.
“Yeah, give it a few years, Amy. You’ll be singing a different tune.” In their laughter, the group representing the female contingent of the small law firm did not notice Amy’s pretty face turning stony, but then quickly giving way to a small smile.
“Maybe” was her only comment as she shrugged her shoulders and turned away from the small gathering, struggling for nonchalance. She could feel the tears pricking the back of her eyelids; a quick duck into the mailroom under the pretense of sorting through the stack of papers she was carrying would give her time to compose, regain some control.
“Shake out of it,” she scolded herself, “you’ve heard worse than this before.” It had to have been the nightmare; it had weakened her defenses so carefully built up over time. “Come on, you know they didn’t mean anything by it and they’re certainly not going to expect you to break down in tears…”
Sunshine, that’s what they called her – though whether it was from the bright, always present smile or the shock of golden red curls she never was quite sure. Being the youngest member of the family owned company, she became almost their pet, their mascot of sorts. “How did we ever survive without you, Amy?” was the continual praise. Still, this indispensability could be reflected more in her paycheck. Amy gave a wobbly attempt at a smile as the random thought floated through her head; she did get paid well, almost too well for being a simple, glorified go-fer. And while her superiors could be demanding, and at times thoughtlessly condescending, she really did like her job and enjoyed serving them. It had been a prayer answered when she had escaped to this pretty little town, running from her past.
Still, comments like those continued to bother her, not just here but with parents everywhere across the globe. What gave them the right to discount her opinion so quickly, so thoroughly? Anger was quickly replacing sorrow, which was good. Anger was her friend, her way back to gaining some self-control. What was it about parents that as soon as they successfully pushed out one child into the world, thought they somehow gained access to this secret club and were rewarded with profound wisdom? Just wait until she was a parent… why couldn’t she matter now? Didn’t they realize that with a background in child psychology, she in fact may be better informed than they? Her anger began to cool and she grimly grinned at the realization that no, they probably didn’t know her true qualifications. When applying, she kept her credentials – though true – to the bare minimum, wanting people to know as little about her as necessary. She had needed a safe haven; somewhere she wouldn’t be confronted with her history everyday, where she wouldn’t have to face the pity in the eyes around her. And this small firm had provided that for her and had in time become her family, though they must have been remarkably lax in their review of her application. Yes, they really did need her. Amy’s grin was a bit more genuine now, authentic enough for her to leave the mailroom behind and go finish out her day.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Story idea 2
Ok, really this is just an extension of one of the stories I was toying with last week; the mother searching for a lost child. I was thinking about the mother's reaction if she did not get her child back. I can hear what you are thinking - she would be sad, duh - move on. But I was thinking of beyond the grief. What would her relationships be like, not only with those close to her, but with strangers also. Would she feel complete, whole or adequate as a female, a nurturer? Would she have trouble seeing a pregnant woman in the grocery store without completely breaking down and losing it? Would she want other children, could she risk her heart again? And, when finding herself having a joyful moment, would she feel guilty and crave that pain again because, in a sick way, it now makes her feel whole?
Again, not many details are formed, just questions. Please let me know any thoughts you may have.
Again, not many details are formed, just questions. Please let me know any thoughts you may have.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
story ideas
I have not settled on a single story idea for the class yet. I have a few floating around that are not really concrete yet, and one that I had attempted earlier and would like to re-work. Let me know what you think.
1) A mother searching for her lost child. I don't really have any direction on what will actually happen in the tale, only the emotions involved. This pervading sense of fear and desperation. I don't really think the story would center on the actions the mother uses in her search, but more on the emotional journey she is on. That's all I have so far. Perhaps fear and desperation are really tools to hold off grief until one feels they are able to cope with it.
2) A young man losing himself and on the brink of giving in to his demons. Again, I don't have much, just this idea of this kind, compassionate young person who feels so completely frustrated, alone and tired of fighting the grey misty gloom that has settled around him. At what point does the fight in your life become worse than not having a life at all?
3) I wrote this fairy tale of a young girl, but people didn't really get the ending. I really like the ideas presented in the story, but would like to make the clearer to the audience. I am not sure that is an appropriate goal for this class though. Briefly, it speaks of dreams and hopes and a world that doesn't really get such things anymore.
1) A mother searching for her lost child. I don't really have any direction on what will actually happen in the tale, only the emotions involved. This pervading sense of fear and desperation. I don't really think the story would center on the actions the mother uses in her search, but more on the emotional journey she is on. That's all I have so far. Perhaps fear and desperation are really tools to hold off grief until one feels they are able to cope with it.
2) A young man losing himself and on the brink of giving in to his demons. Again, I don't have much, just this idea of this kind, compassionate young person who feels so completely frustrated, alone and tired of fighting the grey misty gloom that has settled around him. At what point does the fight in your life become worse than not having a life at all?
3) I wrote this fairy tale of a young girl, but people didn't really get the ending. I really like the ideas presented in the story, but would like to make the clearer to the audience. I am not sure that is an appropriate goal for this class though. Briefly, it speaks of dreams and hopes and a world that doesn't really get such things anymore.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Suggestions welcome
So I was driving to work this week and a line from a song caught my attention and just stuck around for awhile, floating in my head. The line: "I don't want to go through the motions." The song was about having a genuine relationship, not a phony attempt at one. This type of earnest desire for closeness struck me; how many want this in their relationship and are willing to put themselves out there and try after the luster of love seems to fade? How many give up, quit, move on?
A story emerged of a young woman struggling with this same issue; she still wants the intimacy with this man she continues to loves, but has chosen to give up instead. And now, as she is sitting in the courtroom preparing to finalize her divorce, she is contemplating if her decision is the right one. I was imagining that Lisa, our troubled young woman, would choose at the last possible minute to choose love and risking everything would make her desire known to the now estranged man whom she at one time had pledged her life to. A simple story of one’s love and devotion to another, realized bit by bit through memories as she is about to end that very union. It seems slightly (or more than slightly) trite, I know; perhaps too passé. But as the day had progressed, this is what had developed out of that one line, which in itself said something. And happen the way it is outlined above, it did – though not perhaps in the way one might think.
You see, I had played with the story all day in my mind; the boss is not liking me to concretely create anything, but thus far has not been able to penetrate any telepathic clues of where my focus lies. And upon arriving home, sat down to write what I had come up with. I used the techniques we tried last week and made lists to get a better hold on Lisa, and then proceeded with this weeks exercises. The limit of 550 words was a tad daunting, and I have discovered I am a wee bit loquacious – something I am sure my family would be the first to agree with. The strain of trying to complete the entire story in such a limited number of words and say everything I wanted to say is what I believe forced the tale to take a different path. Lo and behold, there was a surprise ending – no one was more shocked by it than I. Now, I am not sure that I am supposed to be sharing the ending of the tale, and I am even less sure that it will make much sense to any of you, having not experienced the beginning – but being that I do not feel at this point I am going to be exploring this any further, divulge I will. You have been forewarned.
****** SPOILER ALERT SPOILER ALERT SPOILER ALERT ******
She [Lisa] put down the pen and moved towards him, taking the first steps in reclaiming her life. She wanted to say that she loved him, wanted to explain how never would she be able to find another who could love her as he did. This and so much more she wanted to scream out from the rooftops; however, the wires holding her jaw firmly in the correct place to mend prevented her from speaking. It was yet another legacy from their lives together.
****************************************
I have another story, this one is one that I had started years ago and it is only the barest beginning of an idea. I tried the exercise in the book to generate some endings, thinking perhaps I could revive it. I am going to put the tale in its entirety (which isn’t much) into this blog; and the ending ideas I have come up with. I’m not really happy with any of them, but like some of the wording in the tale that I am not quite ready to abandon it. Any assistance would be welcome.
The tale:
Maggie sat tapping her pencil on the table. “Write something you know about, write something you know about. That’s what they always say. What do I possibly know that would be of any interest to anyone? It’s not as if I’ve had that fascinating of a life. Am I supposed to tell how my little brother used to stick peas up his nose and shoot them out like little booger bullets whenever I had a friend over for dinner?”
“Stories aren’t supposed to be about ordinary life. They are supposed to be an escape from the doldrums, a vacation from reality.” Fully motivated by her stand, Maggie stood up and started pacing around her tiny room. “Love, romance, princes coming to dance you away, that’s what stories are supposed to be.” Bed springs groaned slightly as Maggie flopped back against the ruffled pillows; a dreamy look filtering into her gaze “Princes, gypsies, thieves and rogues…”
Faster and faster, the horses race through the forest leaving branches snapping and leaves flying in their wake. The sound of pounding hooves vibrated throughout the valley. “Ye better be quick lads, they’re gaining on us.” Animals scurried out of the way while up above birds squawked their displeasure at the disruption of the forest’s solitude.
“Those fat, lazy beasts will be missing their nice, warm beds soon enough.”
“Are ye meanin’ the horses or the guards?” Raucous laughter rang through the trees as the tiny band ducked dangling tree limbs and dodged rotting trucks. And sure enough, cloud of dust steadily trailing in the distance soon faded further and further behind until it had vanished entirely from view.
“They’ve gotten closer that time. Almost if they were laying in wait; like they knew we were coming.” The leader eyed his men carefully. He was a slender man, standing a full head shorter than those around him. Jet black hair flowed to his shoulders, curls which were allowed a wild rein framed a face kissed by the angels. Separately, each feature was nothing remarkable, perhaps even a tad on the unsightly – the nose somewhat crooked, the mouth too full. But situated together in an expression that bespoke of rebellion and excitement, it was impossible not to get swept away on the adventure.
Ok, again it seems headed for the trite world of harlequin romances and cookie cutter plot lines. I am unsure of how to rescue it.
Ideas:
1. Maggie gets inserted into the world of the as of yet nameless leader and tale develops into a spoof of the classic “Robin Hood”
2. Maggie keeps dreaming of the rebel boy, and in continuing to write discovers that her own past holds secrets she had long such buried.
a. Ie. a suppression of abuse, perhaps some type of multiple personality situation…
b. Or the secrets could just be of a fascinating ancestry that has long been forgotten and she uncovers
c. Or the tragedy is perhaps that of a classmate, and we learn that stories of real life often are a result of real pain.
3. Abandon Maggie altogether and focus on a time period tale – would completely start from scratch as all I know is that there are some guards and some vagabonds.
4. Maggie rejects all in her life that do not live up to her ideal, do not match the fantasy and finds herself a decade or two later alone with nothing but her dreams
5. Maggie gets her dream and ends up in a time of princes, thieves and rogues, only to discover how tough medieval times were and how good she had it.
See, none of these really work – and perhaps that should be my sign to shelf this again. Even more telling was when thinking of why we were invited to share Maggie’s life at this particular juncture, I had no clear answers. Hmm, leaves one to wonder…
A story emerged of a young woman struggling with this same issue; she still wants the intimacy with this man she continues to loves, but has chosen to give up instead. And now, as she is sitting in the courtroom preparing to finalize her divorce, she is contemplating if her decision is the right one. I was imagining that Lisa, our troubled young woman, would choose at the last possible minute to choose love and risking everything would make her desire known to the now estranged man whom she at one time had pledged her life to. A simple story of one’s love and devotion to another, realized bit by bit through memories as she is about to end that very union. It seems slightly (or more than slightly) trite, I know; perhaps too passé. But as the day had progressed, this is what had developed out of that one line, which in itself said something. And happen the way it is outlined above, it did – though not perhaps in the way one might think.
You see, I had played with the story all day in my mind; the boss is not liking me to concretely create anything, but thus far has not been able to penetrate any telepathic clues of where my focus lies. And upon arriving home, sat down to write what I had come up with. I used the techniques we tried last week and made lists to get a better hold on Lisa, and then proceeded with this weeks exercises. The limit of 550 words was a tad daunting, and I have discovered I am a wee bit loquacious – something I am sure my family would be the first to agree with. The strain of trying to complete the entire story in such a limited number of words and say everything I wanted to say is what I believe forced the tale to take a different path. Lo and behold, there was a surprise ending – no one was more shocked by it than I. Now, I am not sure that I am supposed to be sharing the ending of the tale, and I am even less sure that it will make much sense to any of you, having not experienced the beginning – but being that I do not feel at this point I am going to be exploring this any further, divulge I will. You have been forewarned.
****** SPOILER ALERT SPOILER ALERT SPOILER ALERT ******
She [Lisa] put down the pen and moved towards him, taking the first steps in reclaiming her life. She wanted to say that she loved him, wanted to explain how never would she be able to find another who could love her as he did. This and so much more she wanted to scream out from the rooftops; however, the wires holding her jaw firmly in the correct place to mend prevented her from speaking. It was yet another legacy from their lives together.
****************************************
I have another story, this one is one that I had started years ago and it is only the barest beginning of an idea. I tried the exercise in the book to generate some endings, thinking perhaps I could revive it. I am going to put the tale in its entirety (which isn’t much) into this blog; and the ending ideas I have come up with. I’m not really happy with any of them, but like some of the wording in the tale that I am not quite ready to abandon it. Any assistance would be welcome.
The tale:
Maggie sat tapping her pencil on the table. “Write something you know about, write something you know about. That’s what they always say. What do I possibly know that would be of any interest to anyone? It’s not as if I’ve had that fascinating of a life. Am I supposed to tell how my little brother used to stick peas up his nose and shoot them out like little booger bullets whenever I had a friend over for dinner?”
“Stories aren’t supposed to be about ordinary life. They are supposed to be an escape from the doldrums, a vacation from reality.” Fully motivated by her stand, Maggie stood up and started pacing around her tiny room. “Love, romance, princes coming to dance you away, that’s what stories are supposed to be.” Bed springs groaned slightly as Maggie flopped back against the ruffled pillows; a dreamy look filtering into her gaze “Princes, gypsies, thieves and rogues…”
Faster and faster, the horses race through the forest leaving branches snapping and leaves flying in their wake. The sound of pounding hooves vibrated throughout the valley. “Ye better be quick lads, they’re gaining on us.” Animals scurried out of the way while up above birds squawked their displeasure at the disruption of the forest’s solitude.
“Those fat, lazy beasts will be missing their nice, warm beds soon enough.”
“Are ye meanin’ the horses or the guards?” Raucous laughter rang through the trees as the tiny band ducked dangling tree limbs and dodged rotting trucks. And sure enough, cloud of dust steadily trailing in the distance soon faded further and further behind until it had vanished entirely from view.
“They’ve gotten closer that time. Almost if they were laying in wait; like they knew we were coming.” The leader eyed his men carefully. He was a slender man, standing a full head shorter than those around him. Jet black hair flowed to his shoulders, curls which were allowed a wild rein framed a face kissed by the angels. Separately, each feature was nothing remarkable, perhaps even a tad on the unsightly – the nose somewhat crooked, the mouth too full. But situated together in an expression that bespoke of rebellion and excitement, it was impossible not to get swept away on the adventure.
Ok, again it seems headed for the trite world of harlequin romances and cookie cutter plot lines. I am unsure of how to rescue it.
Ideas:
1. Maggie gets inserted into the world of the as of yet nameless leader and tale develops into a spoof of the classic “Robin Hood”
2. Maggie keeps dreaming of the rebel boy, and in continuing to write discovers that her own past holds secrets she had long such buried.
a. Ie. a suppression of abuse, perhaps some type of multiple personality situation…
b. Or the secrets could just be of a fascinating ancestry that has long been forgotten and she uncovers
c. Or the tragedy is perhaps that of a classmate, and we learn that stories of real life often are a result of real pain.
3. Abandon Maggie altogether and focus on a time period tale – would completely start from scratch as all I know is that there are some guards and some vagabonds.
4. Maggie rejects all in her life that do not live up to her ideal, do not match the fantasy and finds herself a decade or two later alone with nothing but her dreams
5. Maggie gets her dream and ends up in a time of princes, thieves and rogues, only to discover how tough medieval times were and how good she had it.
See, none of these really work – and perhaps that should be my sign to shelf this again. Even more telling was when thinking of why we were invited to share Maggie’s life at this particular juncture, I had no clear answers. Hmm, leaves one to wonder…
Monday, May 18, 2009
Miseries of Being Missy
Missy was beautiful, imposing; and with a father married to the celebrity of a local television news program, she quickly became the queen of our little fourth grade hive. Her drones? They were all of us hapless female counterparts who were unlucky enough to have mere mortals for parents, simple members of the general viewing audience. Missy expected complete compliance and obedience from her minions and was seldom disappointed in this. To disobey would mean to be exiled, frozen out from the rest of the fourth-grade female population – the boys generally paying us all no mind unless we were exceptionally skilled at kickball. Our queen ruled her territory with a cynical smile or look of disdain, a few cynical words were all that was required to retain her power. When given, they worked as a type of authorization, a permission slip of sorts allowing and in fact advocating the participation of others to join in with cutting, taunting and hurtful remarks of their own. It’s funny, but looking back I can’t remember her ever laughing out of sheer joy, instead only out of derision to others.
Now, this many years later, it would be easy to imagine Missy as having married “well” to a husband who, having grown bored with her, has moved on to new companions without offering the courtesy of ending their union leaving his wife to inhabit an upscale home with nothing but vodka and cigarettes for company. Or perhaps, her beauty did not outlive her teenage years, and as it faded subsequently so did the power she held over others. She would married the first who would take her as she had not prepared herself for anything else, and spent her days toiling trying to make enough out of too little. The drudgery and pressure of life wiped out all other charms, even those of her children.
Yes, it would indeed be easy to plop Missy into either of these lifestyles, but these might have opened up her heart, given her a warmth, developed in her some character. No instead, I envision our Missy as having married and now engaging herself in the life long pursuit of perfection, or at least the appearance of it. However, in truth, she is hollow, but an empty shell. Too scared to face any potential inadequacies she may discover within, she has never really found that at which she could excel, instead living life trying to fill the void left by never discovering who she is.
In visiting Missy, one can immediately see the tasteful elegance in which see resides. Guests are served exquisite refreshments on delicate china, the delicacies brought in and whisked away so effortlessly, no one would guess someplace as menial and domestic as a kitchen existed on the premises. No where does one see the clutter of children, the only evidence of their existence being the large portrait hanging over the fireplace depicting the perfect family. And Missy should be proud of her children, her son a little scholar and budding scientist while her daughter is a standout on the soccer field. Yet, one is left to wonder if the love for the children would be as strong if their excellence was not quite so evident.
Yet, despite the refinement and grace of the home, it is her sister Amy’s house that the family always seems to prefer – something Missy just doesn’t understand. Yes, Amy’s house is clean, but you can see worn spots in the carpet that detail the routes taken daily as the family navigates through their home. And no matter when you arrive at Amy’s, even for plans made well in advance, she is always in the midst of cooking or baking something, leaving the family to gather in the large kitchen area instead of conversing in the living room as civilized people would do. Also, though always respectful, Amy’s children were always traipsing through the house, a couple other neighborhood kids always in tow, to raid the fridge or engage in some boisterous game. The only discipline her sister ever seemed to think was necessary was an occasional warning that the riotous noise was a little too loud and needed to be moved outside. Sometimes, in fact, she even joined in the antics acting as little more than a child herself. Missy worked hard to maintain a stylish and orderly home maintaining the façade of poise and respectability; that her sister’s was still preferred caused this poor soul endless confusion and bespoke more than anything else could how she so thoroughly had missed that the key to life’s happiness was in the caring for others.
In exploring Missy, her life and her home – I learned quite a bit. It showed me how much one’s chosen environment can define their state of mind, but reinforced my belief that one’s true character can be evidenced by their treatment of others. I like the fact that I choose not to villainize Missy, but instead to victimize her, but I still found it hard to really like her which in turn made it difficult for me to want to focus on the details of her life. I think I would have liked to explore the reactions she might have had if her child had been bullied in school. Would witnessing the pain fill her with self-righteous indignation, anger and contempt for the lack of parenting skills that would result in such an attack, would she feel shame that her child wasn’t the best and most popular, or would it take an instance such as this to breath some type of humanity into her character?
I liked the opportunity to poke through the closets and refrigerator of a character. I never before would have thought to do such a thing, but it really does help give a glimpse of every aspect of their live, much like looking in someone’s medicine cabinet when visiting the home (not that I ever have done such a thing – really). It not only reveals personality traits, but morals and values as well. In creating characters, I think several “prop lists” such as these could be useful, ones for different settings, different periods in their lives, even different moods: when depressed, when angry, when motivated or at peace. Not only that, but it is kind of fun to do. I always like to think of what books my characters would read, or what music would be the soundtrack to their lives. It is just taking that idea one step further.
My dissatisfaction with Missy is that I left her a bit too clichéd, too stereotypical. Perhaps I should have abandoned my vindictiveness in order to create someone more original. Definitely something to take into account next time.
Now, this many years later, it would be easy to imagine Missy as having married “well” to a husband who, having grown bored with her, has moved on to new companions without offering the courtesy of ending their union leaving his wife to inhabit an upscale home with nothing but vodka and cigarettes for company. Or perhaps, her beauty did not outlive her teenage years, and as it faded subsequently so did the power she held over others. She would married the first who would take her as she had not prepared herself for anything else, and spent her days toiling trying to make enough out of too little. The drudgery and pressure of life wiped out all other charms, even those of her children.
Yes, it would indeed be easy to plop Missy into either of these lifestyles, but these might have opened up her heart, given her a warmth, developed in her some character. No instead, I envision our Missy as having married and now engaging herself in the life long pursuit of perfection, or at least the appearance of it. However, in truth, she is hollow, but an empty shell. Too scared to face any potential inadequacies she may discover within, she has never really found that at which she could excel, instead living life trying to fill the void left by never discovering who she is.
In visiting Missy, one can immediately see the tasteful elegance in which see resides. Guests are served exquisite refreshments on delicate china, the delicacies brought in and whisked away so effortlessly, no one would guess someplace as menial and domestic as a kitchen existed on the premises. No where does one see the clutter of children, the only evidence of their existence being the large portrait hanging over the fireplace depicting the perfect family. And Missy should be proud of her children, her son a little scholar and budding scientist while her daughter is a standout on the soccer field. Yet, one is left to wonder if the love for the children would be as strong if their excellence was not quite so evident.
Yet, despite the refinement and grace of the home, it is her sister Amy’s house that the family always seems to prefer – something Missy just doesn’t understand. Yes, Amy’s house is clean, but you can see worn spots in the carpet that detail the routes taken daily as the family navigates through their home. And no matter when you arrive at Amy’s, even for plans made well in advance, she is always in the midst of cooking or baking something, leaving the family to gather in the large kitchen area instead of conversing in the living room as civilized people would do. Also, though always respectful, Amy’s children were always traipsing through the house, a couple other neighborhood kids always in tow, to raid the fridge or engage in some boisterous game. The only discipline her sister ever seemed to think was necessary was an occasional warning that the riotous noise was a little too loud and needed to be moved outside. Sometimes, in fact, she even joined in the antics acting as little more than a child herself. Missy worked hard to maintain a stylish and orderly home maintaining the façade of poise and respectability; that her sister’s was still preferred caused this poor soul endless confusion and bespoke more than anything else could how she so thoroughly had missed that the key to life’s happiness was in the caring for others.
In exploring Missy, her life and her home – I learned quite a bit. It showed me how much one’s chosen environment can define their state of mind, but reinforced my belief that one’s true character can be evidenced by their treatment of others. I like the fact that I choose not to villainize Missy, but instead to victimize her, but I still found it hard to really like her which in turn made it difficult for me to want to focus on the details of her life. I think I would have liked to explore the reactions she might have had if her child had been bullied in school. Would witnessing the pain fill her with self-righteous indignation, anger and contempt for the lack of parenting skills that would result in such an attack, would she feel shame that her child wasn’t the best and most popular, or would it take an instance such as this to breath some type of humanity into her character?
I liked the opportunity to poke through the closets and refrigerator of a character. I never before would have thought to do such a thing, but it really does help give a glimpse of every aspect of their live, much like looking in someone’s medicine cabinet when visiting the home (not that I ever have done such a thing – really). It not only reveals personality traits, but morals and values as well. In creating characters, I think several “prop lists” such as these could be useful, ones for different settings, different periods in their lives, even different moods: when depressed, when angry, when motivated or at peace. Not only that, but it is kind of fun to do. I always like to think of what books my characters would read, or what music would be the soundtrack to their lives. It is just taking that idea one step further.
My dissatisfaction with Missy is that I left her a bit too clichéd, too stereotypical. Perhaps I should have abandoned my vindictiveness in order to create someone more original. Definitely something to take into account next time.
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