Awhile ago, my mother handed me my old report cards. For giggles, I read them. There were numerous times a teacher would write notes to my mother on them like, "Good girl. Needs to learn to be quiet." I remember bringing home these report cards and being lectured on behavior. It's these memories that made me nervous about sending my equally loquacious eldest to kindergarten. She never received anything like that on her report card, though. But I wasn't going to risk it when my third daughter added, "lack of focus" to the mix. She stayed home.
Anyway, I also had marks on these same report cards about "maturity" and not being successful at various things. Writing is one of those things that takes time. There's no right way or wrong way to writing. There is poor writing, for sure, but even that's subjective... Fifty Shades of Grey is prime example of a author that tells her story more than shows her story. Time and time again my friends say they read it because of the characters, and not the writing. If you want to write another book that Fifty Shades of Grey you don't need my advise. Actually, my advise won't help you. If you want to pick up a red marker and edit Fifty Shades of Grey, my lessons will help you.
Lesson 2 had you add detail to your 3000 word nonfiction essay. But the details did not have to be precise. You now should have over 3000 words to your story about meeting someone in your life.
Look over the story, what sort of details did you add? What sort of things did you add about your characters.
I mentioned Fifty Shades of Grey (bet you were waiting to figure out how that all tied into this lesson) because the number one reason any of my friends tell me they keep reading the novel is characters. They care and want to know what is happening with characters. I will venture to say, in my humble opinion, that characters is the most important part of writing. People read to become attached to characters, to feel a connection and to learn about humanity through writing. In some ways, we're being voyeurs. We want to know what is happening in others' live--real or nonfiction. I think this is why realty television is so popular. Even if it is a train wreck, we cannot turn it off. We must have some more, must know why they are acting that way.
Even in fiction, characters need to be realistic. We need to believe that they could really live and exist. We need that suspended disbelief to care. if we don't care about them, then we won't keep picking up the book. This is why I am struggling to keep reading Fifty. I don't care. I believe the girl, Ana is doing it to herself and I don't believe anyone is so gullible and naive as she is. I don't find Grey anymore enduring and I see him as a predator. I just don't care. It's cruel and awful, isn't it? But I keep reading because what I do care, as a writer, is learning about WHY everyone else is reading this like candy and loving it! The plot doesn't bother me. I actually believe the writer is talented in finding a great plot and keeping the story flowing (although it is poorly written, I believe it is only so because it wasn't properly edited. To me it reads like a rough draft. When you get snagged, it's because she tells us the story rather than shows us--but don't get hung up on showing vs telling too much. There are actual times when telling is more appropriate).
Your assignment: Can you guess? Character development! Since this is an essay about meeting a person for the first time, we need to understand why meeting this person is significant to you. Go back over your piece and see if you added enough details about your character for your reader to visualize him or her.
Here's my detailed, character driven paragraph:
The youngest, a 4 year old brunette, twisted between her mother's knee as her mother struggled to readjust her pigtails. The girl broke free, and ran around in circles the chairs where we sat. "Duck, duck, duck," she chanted as she patted each of our heads.
"Carol, don't bother the people!" her mother said. "Michael, get your sister."
A thin boy, who looked like Danny from Karate kid, leaned over as his sister raced past him, screaming, "Goose!" and grabbed her by the shirt.
"You're it, Mikey! You're it!" She squealed, wriggling herself free of her brother and darting toward Jeremy, my younger brother. Jeremy sat in the seat, wide eyes, his lips turned into a delighted smile. My mother reached over and pulled him immediately onto her lap and held him there.
Eventually, Michael caught his sister again and flopped her onto his mother's lap. He sat away from them and arms crossed. He pulled his baseball cap over his eyes and just sat there, like he wanted to be invisible, I imagined. I studied him for a moment. There was something enduring about how a curl of brown played peek-a-boo out of his cap.
The mother gathered the girl up onto her lap and pulled her loose hair into a sloppy pigtail. She then turned to my mother, "I'm sorry. She's sometimes can be a handful."
"I can understand that," my mother said. "You from Washington State?"
The mother look puzzled at my mother. "Yes. How did you know?"
"Your son's cap. It says Mariners on it. I'm from Seattle, myself. My sons love the Mariners," my mom said.
"Yes," she said. "We drove here from Ft. Lewis to visit with family. We're headed to Germany. My husband is there already."
"Really? That's where we were last stationed," my mom answered. "My parents live in Carlisle and so we came so we could visit before three years overseas. What base?"
"Ramstein."
My mother pointed her thumb at my brother. "We are too. Harold here will be going to Ramstein American High School."
"So will my boys," she said.
"What grade?"
"Michael is going to be a freshman and Bobby is a sophomore," she said.
"Harold is a sophomore," mom said. "Why don't we get your information and maybe we can set up a time for the boys to meet up?"
"That'll be nice."
The boys--all three of them--exchanged looks.
I leaned over and whispered to my sister, "He's cute." And like most 11 year olds would, she started to chant, "Patty has a boyfriend! Kissing..."
I rolled my eyes and my cheeks grew red. I said he was cute. I never said I wanted to date him.
Are you getting a better picture of my characters? I guarantee this is not how the conversation went when Micheal's mom and my mom met in the airport twenty years ago. However, it is how it could have gone. I, myself, as a mother have sat in a doctor's office and had to wrestle a unruly child into her seat at she decided to play duck-duck-goose with everyone in the waiting room. As I add details, I am adding moments and segments from my life since I cannot remember every moment. True creative nonfiction would not take complete artistic license like I am here. I am slowly emerging details from my life and making them into a fiction story. That's what I am wanting you to do. Remember, we started with nonfiction because every professor and writing book gives the advise: Write what you know. So our foundation is a true event in our own lives.
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