May 31, 2005
It's Not Rocket Science
One of my bad habits is that I always try to make things more difficult than they are. I know, I know, it should be the opposite—I should try to make things easier—but it’s not, and I don’t. It’s true even with my blog. “I don’t know what to write!” I’ll agonize. “Just bitch about your day,” my husband answers. My husband has his own blog, and the entries that have gotten the best response are the ones where he just blathers on about nothing in particular. I’m always wanting to write finely tuned mini-essays where I uncover deeply profound truths about life.
It happened with teaching, too. I think that one of the problems I had with teaching is that I acted like my undergraduates were graduate students. Everything had to be complicated, “problematic” (how I miss that word now that I’m not in academia) and, again, deeply profound. But the undergrads didn’t know enough for that. What it needed to be was simple; the basics. I sat in on other professors’ classes and was just sort of in awe of how beautifully simple the material they presented was. I can’t seem to think like that.
I’ve asked myself why this is. My automatic response is to say I don’t know why, but I actually think I do have some clues. Part of it has to do with covering up who I really am. It’s easier to be “finely tuned” and complicated than to be simple and honest. It was easier to work myself into knots about class material than to take a fresh look at the images and say, OK, what is this? What is it saying to me today? I think I was afraid that I wouldn’t come up with anything. And so I tried and tried and tried to cover up that fear of failure.
Deep down inside, I think I’m afraid that I’m so shallow that, left to my own devices, all I’ll really want to talk about is Duran Duran and how my hair’s doing. But I think that’s just a symptom telling me that I haven’t quite outgrown being a gawky, insecure teenager inside. Great. There’s nothing better than an immature thirty-something.
Anyway, what I don’t want to happen is for all this “things must be difficult” crap to find its way into my writing. I can see it already, hovering at the edges, and I’m trying to head it off at the pass. I’m learning that good stories are not built on overwrought, supremely complicated plot structures. They are composed of good characters in simple situations who react to life honestly.
One of my favorite authors right now is Elizabeth Berg. I just read “Durable Goods” and “Joy School,” about a twelve/thirteen year old girl who is trying to cope with losing her mother and with just being an adolescent. The scenes are simple. Katie crawls under her bed and stares at the bedsprings. She goes to a new school and tries to make friends. She talks to her best friend about makeup and boys and hair—and there it is, my much-coveted subject, hair! In other words, this story is not rocket science. What makes it good is the dialogue, the way that Katie responds to things—which is honestly—and the development of the characters.
This worries me a little. What I am frequently *not* good at is honesty and simplicity. I wrack my brain coming up with tortured plot lines and master plans when what I need to do is sit back and say, OK, how would my character respond to this situation? Who *is* my character? What maker her *her*? And let it unfold. I recently found an author’s site where you are shown how to produce a “design document” prior to writing a story. “Good fiction doesn’t just happen,” the author says. The problem is that I’ll design and design and design a story until I’ve knocked whatever life there was right out of it. For me, I think it needs to just happen.
Sigh. This certainly *sounds* like rocket science.
Posted by Lisa at 03:10 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 18, 2005
A Tribute to Star Wars
In honor of today's premiere of episode three, I offer below my own version of Star Wars, written when I was twelve. It was, in fact, begun on May 22, 1981, twenty-four years and three days before today's premiere. Notice that my version has the edgy premise that Han Solo is actually working for the empire when the story opens. Read it and either a)weep or b)dare to tell me I don't have what it takes to be a writer. And remember, folks, twelve. Age twelve.
"I knew someday I'd go to [sic] far," a middle-aged, fairly handsome man remarked. Next to him, a 100 year old wookie, seated in a co-pilot chair grunted in return. Han Solo, smuggler, pirate, gazed out the front window of his old, beat up ship, which he called, the "falcon."
Han smuggled many unsual things, but this? Smuggle some princess for the empire?
"I don't know, Chewbacca--well, I've already got myself into this mess. Let's get going."
As they neared, many laser shots and rocks were flashing across the galaxy.
Back in a dark cave, lit up by radar screens, and flashing buttons, a young, pretty woman with her braided hair coiled on top of her head gazed intently at a flashing screen. An officer approached her.
"Princess, no signs of approaching ships, or any signs of distrubance from the empire. I suppose that pleases you."
"No," Leia replied. "It really worries me. If Darth Vador hasn't done something already I'm afraid he's planning something really big." A call from a nearby watchout post interrupted her thoughts, saying, "There's a ship approaching!"
"Man your stations--oh, never mind--that couldn't be the empire in that dinky little ship--just be on guard."
Han told Chewie to watch the ship, while he went and pretended to be friendly.
Han, expecting a richly dressed lady with a crown and all, stood gaping at Princess Leia, after a guard pointed her out.
"Well, what'ya expect, an evening gown in *here*?"
"You're the princess?" Han asked, unbelievingly.
"What do I have to do, have you kiss my feet?" she answered sarcastically.
"Alright, alright, just sit down and simmer down."
"Are you telling me to shut up?" she asked.
"In a nice way, yes."
"Where did you come from anyway?"
"Maybe it's time you had a talk with your mommy."
"I've had it with you," she turned away, tears stinging her eyes, as she remembered her mother.
"Oh come off it--stop putting me through the third degree. I came to see you," he said.
"Me?"
"Well, not exactly you," he almost slipped! "Just, whoever was here that could help me."
Across the empire, Darth Vador sat smugly in his throne.
"So, Solo has gone to get the princess. I'm sure she'll go with him. He'll appeal to her. If he's working for me, maybe she will too.
Leia stood gazing out the door, watching Han try to fix his ship.
"That imp," she said under her breath.
"Princess, there's disturbance near. So near, half of our hide out has been blown away," a young officer Perolt shouted.
Suddenly, a loud voice was screaming into an intercom, "EVACUATE!"
Han winced. "What a voice. She could get a job calling hogs (tauntauns)!"
The whole place suddenly was in a turmoil of running people.
"Good luck," Leia was saying to a band of her fighters.
Well, fans, that's it for today. But there's more where that came from. Tune in another time to find out who will cook dinner--Leia or Han?--and what happens when Leia is thrown into Han's arms by a disturbance in the force one too many times. (Notice that I didn't say, "tune in tomorrow"--that's because I don't want to scare you, my readers, away.)
Posted by Lisa at 07:59 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack