injustice. We can sit all night with our friend while he talks about the end of his marriage, and what we finally get is a collection of stories about passion, tenderness, misunderstanding, sorrow, money; those hours and days and moments when he was absolutely married, whether he and his wife were screaming at each other, or sulking around the house, or making love. While his marriage was dying, he was also working; spending evenings with friends, rearing children; but those are other stories. Which is why, days after hearing a painful story by a friend, we see him and say: How are you? We know that by now he may have another story to tell, or he may be in the middle if one, and we hope it is joyful.
Think of the basket of each characterâs life: what holds the ectoplasm togetherâwhat are this personâs routines, beliefs? What little things would your characters write in their journals: I ate this, I hate that, I did this, took the dog for a long walk, I chatted with my neighbor. This is all the stuff that tethers them to the earth and to other people, all the stuff that makes each character think that life sort of makes sense.
The basket is an apt image because of all the holes. How aware is each character of how flimsy the basket really is? How present are your people? Someone once said to me, "I am trying to learn to stay in the nowânot the last now, not the next now; this now." Which "now" do your characters dwell in?
What are your characters teaching their children by example and by indoctrination? For instance, I was teaching Sam peace chants for a long time, when he was only two. It was during the war in the Persian Gulf; I was a little angry.
"What do we want?" Iâd call to Sam.
"Peace," heâd shout dutifully.
"And when do we want it?" Iâd ask.
"Now!" heâd say, and Iâd smile and toss him a fish.
The words were utterly meaningless to him, of course. I might as well have taught him to reply "Spoos!" instead of "Peace" and "August!" instead of "Now." My friends loved it, though; all three of his grandparents loved it. Now, how much does this say about me and my longings? I think something like this would tell a reader more about a character than would three pages of description. It would tell us about her current politics and the political tradition from which she sprang, her people-pleasing, her longing for peace and her longing to belong, her way of diluting rage and frustration with humor, while also using her child as a prop, a little live Charlie McCarthy. The latter is horrifying, but itâs also sort of poignant. Maybe thirty-five years ago this woman had to perform for her parentsâ friends. Maybe she was their little Charlie McCarthy. Maybe she and her therapist can discuss it for the next few months. And did this woman stop using her kid, once she realized what she was doing? No, she didnât, and this tells us even more. She kept at it, long after the war was over, until one day she called to her three-and-a-half-year-old son, "Heyâwhat do we want?" And he said plaintively, "Lunch."
I once asked Ethan Canin to tell me the most valuable thing he knew about writing, and without hesitation he said, "Nothing is as important as a likable narrator. Nothing holds a story together better." think heâs right. If your narrator is someone whose take on things fascinates you, it isnât really going to matter if nothing much happens for a long time. I could watch John Cleese or Anthony Hopkins do dishes for about an hour without needing much else to happen. Having a likable narrator is like having a great friend whose company you love, whose mind you love to pick, whose running commentary totally holds your attention, who makes you laugh out loud, whose lines you always want to steal. When you have a friend like this, she can say, "Hey, Iâve got to drive up to the dump in Petaluma â wanna come along?" and you honestly canât think of
Think of the basket of each characterâs life: what holds the ectoplasm togetherâwhat are this personâs routines, beliefs? What little things would your characters write in their journals: I ate this, I hate that, I did this, took the dog for a long walk, I chatted with my neighbor. This is all the stuff that tethers them to the earth and to other people, all the stuff that makes each character think that life sort of makes sense.
The basket is an apt image because of all the holes. How aware is each character of how flimsy the basket really is? How present are your people? Someone once said to me, "I am trying to learn to stay in the nowânot the last now, not the next now; this now." Which "now" do your characters dwell in?
What are your characters teaching their children by example and by indoctrination? For instance, I was teaching Sam peace chants for a long time, when he was only two. It was during the war in the Persian Gulf; I was a little angry.
"What do we want?" Iâd call to Sam.
"Peace," heâd shout dutifully.
"And when do we want it?" Iâd ask.
"Now!" heâd say, and Iâd smile and toss him a fish.
The words were utterly meaningless to him, of course. I might as well have taught him to reply "Spoos!" instead of "Peace" and "August!" instead of "Now." My friends loved it, though; all three of his grandparents loved it. Now, how much does this say about me and my longings? I think something like this would tell a reader more about a character than would three pages of description. It would tell us about her current politics and the political tradition from which she sprang, her people-pleasing, her longing for peace and her longing to belong, her way of diluting rage and frustration with humor, while also using her child as a prop, a little live Charlie McCarthy. The latter is horrifying, but itâs also sort of poignant. Maybe thirty-five years ago this woman had to perform for her parentsâ friends. Maybe she was their little Charlie McCarthy. Maybe she and her therapist can discuss it for the next few months. And did this woman stop using her kid, once she realized what she was doing? No, she didnât, and this tells us even more. She kept at it, long after the war was over, until one day she called to her three-and-a-half-year-old son, "Heyâwhat do we want?" And he said plaintively, "Lunch."
I once asked Ethan Canin to tell me the most valuable thing he knew about writing, and without hesitation he said, "Nothing is as important as a likable narrator. Nothing holds a story together better." think heâs right. If your narrator is someone whose take on things fascinates you, it isnât really going to matter if nothing much happens for a long time. I could watch John Cleese or Anthony Hopkins do dishes for about an hour without needing much else to happen. Having a likable narrator is like having a great friend whose company you love, whose mind you love to pick, whose running commentary totally holds your attention, who makes you laugh out loud, whose lines you always want to steal. When you have a friend like this, she can say, "Hey, Iâve got to drive up to the dump in Petaluma â wanna come along?" and you honestly canât think of
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