I suppose that I misunderstand idioms because English is my third language. Or why I mishear words. I just learned that the song “Killing me softly with insults” is actually “Killing Me Softly With His Song.”
I still think it makes more sense my way. Another phrase that makes no sense, an idiom, is “getting his just deserts.” To me it implies getting a deserved sweet reward, right?
Apparently not. Which took me back to the olden days, when I was a freshman chemical engineering student at Northeastern University. All engineers had to take drafting classes. Imagine that. I liked drafting but the homework took forever and, in general, I didn’t do homework. (I’m not proud of it)
One of our classmates was a weird kid, a loner who had trouble expressing himself. I’d heard Howie was a genius, or at least a near-genius. What was clear is that he had social and physical issues. He wrote in very large letters, much like a child, quickly filling notebook after notebook he stuffed into a full bag which, of course, he regularly dropped, creating a frantic scene when the notebooks spilled and he feared their loss.
I’m not sure how much of a genius Howie was, or how well he was doing, but drafting class was a no-go for him. Toward the end of the school year a bunch of us decided to help him—I had more reason to help than others, but that is another story—and tried to tutor him, enough to at least get him a passing grade.
In part we wanted to show the flunkies who teased Howie without mercy that he could pass a course they were likely to fail. Out of the 105 freshmen that started chemical engineering studies, only twenty five graduated on time.
But Howie could not draw a straight line. Literally. He held his pencil like Anthony Perkins held his knife in Psycho, which explained why, rather than drawing a straight line, Howie’s pencil ripped a jagged tear through the paper.
We couldn’t get him to relax his grip on the pencil. We made some progress, at least in explaining what he was supposed to do, even if he physically couldn’t, but when the time for finals came, we weren’t hopeful.
Proctoring that final we found a teaching assistant, a young woman we’d never seen before. Our drafting professor—a very elegant man in fitted suits who started each lecture by removing and exquisitely folding his jacket—had proctored every test till then. It shouldn’t have mattered.
Emo, one of the kids who’d worked the hardest with Howie, was a genuinely nice guy and a good student. He reminded me a bit of Perry Como, a mellow crooner with his own TV variety show. When he finished the test, Emo turned to Howie, who was sitting on the draft table behind him.
“How you doing, Howie? You doing good?” Emo asked in a natural voice. I was sitting a couple rows back. When I heard him, I looked up from my paper.
The TA, an athletic young woman wearing a tartan skirt, leaped from her chair and charged Emo, finger pointed, accusing him of copying from Howie.
The room broke out in laughter.
“No, no, I wasn’t cheating,” Emo said, offering the test. “See? I was done.”
“I saw you with my own eyes.”
“No, no,” Emo pleaded, “you don’t understand…”
Loud laughter isn’t the normal response to having a classmate caught “cheating.” Maybe that confused her. Maybe she felt we were questioning her authority. There weren’t many female engineering students in 1962; we had none in our class.
“Oh, I understand, I most certainly do,” she said, as she tore Emo’s test in half and threw it into the trash can. “This will teach you to cheat.”
That’s what I mean by ‘just deserts.’ You would think the phrase means something good, some well earned just reward. I suppose it doesn’t.
We recently bought a new trash can, when the pedal-operated can we used for recyclables broke. The new can featured a self opening lid: it seemed a convenience.
It scared me the first time I walked past it—maybe a bit too close—and it snapped open. The combination of sound and action startled me. It’s happened again but I’m getting used to it.
It reminded me of Woody Allen complaining that his appliances conspired against him. It was a funny bit. Woody used to be very funny, before he turned into Ingmar Bergman.
Not that I mind Bergman. His movies were good, not necessarily enjoyable, but very good. And I was young then. I even liked the ones in black and white. They are fine. Hey, even my printer is black and white. But sometimes you need color, like for a photo. Fortunately Ruth has two color printers.
I soon discovered the Epson is unequivocally broken. It says so in its little liquid crystal window, while advising you to call a technician. No ambiguity. Nothing I tried dissuaded it. Call a technician, it insisted.
The other printer is newer and should work. It did for a while, Ruth said. When I tried it, the printer claimed to have no paper, even though it did. It actually claims to have no paper even when it takes it in. How is that possible? It took the paper and now it claims it didn’t? I forced the issue and it rewarded me with a different message: it cannot handle paper so small. Small? It’s regular size, for Pete’s sake!
I unplugged the new printer, moved it to my study—next to the new computer—loaded drivers from its CD and powered up its wireless feature. It still didn’t see the paper.
The HP people on the blogosphere suggest to disconnect and reconnect. Okay. I had jut done that, but what the hell, I did it again.
No help. So HP says to place it on its right side. Meaning what? It needs to be burped? And how do you know which is the right side? Your right? Its right?
I tried the right, I tried the left. Neither worked. I tried front and back—for good luck—I examined the paper space with a flashlight, jiggled the paper, raised it, fed it one at the time: I tried every which way.
I sat back and stared at it for some time, trying to figure out if there was something else I could try. That’s when the paper lid snapped open. Which scared me. It wasn’t the flip or the sound or the surprise; it was the timing. Was the HP printer mimicking the trash can?
I pushed back on my chair. This had to be a coincidence. That’s when this loud, horrible roar rose from the corner. The shredder had come to life. By itself. No paper jammed, nothing on top. Nothing even near it. It just turned itself on. I got the message: the shredder has teeth.
I can’t tell who else is in the conspiracy but I’m not getting into the massage chair anytime soon.
Why do so many people want to be president? It does offer some unique perks, such as good housing and free transportation, not to mention excellent health and retirement plans but still, it has to be one of the worst jobs in the world.
Part of the reason we have an oversupply of candidates can be traced to the willful misapplication of our most basic laws; when selecting the president, we are following an unconstitutional system. Our Constitution specifies that the electoral college should decide who should be president. George Washington was not selected by popular vote. He didn’t go to New Hampshire to kiss babies. [There wasn’t even an Iowa] Presidential electors, all sixty nine of them, voted for him. That’s how he got the job.
Nowadays everyone thinks that the electoral college system is antiquated and should be eliminated. Nonsense. Although I would suggest a minor change.
I propose that the electoral college should continue to select the president, but not from those who proclaim their desire to be president (they are automatically eliminated), but from those who ought to be.
After the secret selection process, conducted in an undisclosed location, our future president should be approached, discretely, preferably on some public space. If the person accepts, calling it a great honor and thanking the electoral college, their parents, God, the great American people and the Academy, (not necessarily in that order), the messenger should apologize and say, “oops, sorry, we made a mistake. We thought you were someone else.”
But if the person says No! and runs away, we should give chase because that man or woman will be the next president of the United States of America.
Driving around Batangas province, in the Philippines—we were exploring potential sites for a chemical plant—we stopped at a roadside stand for refreshments. It was hot, it was humid and it was crazy on two lane road snaking south from Manila. The stand, a no-walls, thatched roof structure, offered limited choices. I ordered a Coke. I seldom drink sodas, but Coca-cola is a much safer bet than water when traveling through parts of Asia.
The stand was dominated by three large, glass counters containing nothing but knives. Thousands of knives. I dare say every conceivable size, style, color knife was on display. In addition to two colleagues from the States, the van driver and a guide, we were accompanied by two executives from our Philippine subsidiary. I asked one of them about the knives.
“Batangas is the knife capital of the Philippines,” he said.
“Ouch. ERs must get plenty of knife wound practice.”
“Nope,” he replied. “Very few cuts, because everyone in Batangas carries a knife.
I was reminded of the incident after an NRA official placed the blame for the Charleston church killings on the victims. “It wouldn’t have happened if they had carried a gun,” was the gist of what he said.
That Philippines trip took place almost twenty years ago. I said nothing at the time. I might have asked him what would happen to people carrying a knife if someone showed up with a gun, but I didn’t want to compromise our business relationship nor did I want to antagonize him, after all, we had quite a ways to go, and we were in Batangas, so odds were he was carrying a knife.
Maybe I should have asked. He might have laughed and said: “The same thing that happens to people with guns when someone shows up with a Kalashnikov.”
Writing the Novel – Plot – Solomon Jones http://www.solomonjones.com/
Setting determines what can happen in a story, what the rules are, the parameters. You have to establish it first. That’s Solomon’s rule. Of course, he went on to say, there are no rules.
“The memory ebbed and flowed like a river. Sometimes it was crystal clear, other times it was murky, but no matter how Tim Green’s recollection of that night ended up, it always started the same—at Kensington and Allegheny.” Excerpt from the prologue of “The Dead Man’s Wife,” by Solomon Jones.
But setting changes. Philly has changed since he wrote that prologue.
Audience member: It has to make you feel like you are there.
Time and Place. Mood.
The setting provides the first inkling of what the story is about. Make it authentic. Establish the norm.
1.- establish the setting
2.- who is the main character? Who has decisions to make.
3.- supporting characters. They are tools. They illuminates the main character
4.- establish the relationships between the characters.
5.- leads to conflict.
6.- resolution. How does the main character solve the problems posed above.
If you are writing about, say, 1985, think of technology and culture on the year you are writing about. What was the music, the style of dress, iPods (no), Walkmans? Etc. The same applies to writing in the present.
Gregg Frost substituted for the Saturday session http://www.gregoryfrost.com/
Today: Elements of Character.
All the elements should blend in seamlessly.
Raymond Chandler cut every page in three, to make sure there was some sensory reference in every page, even in every third of a page.
The novel setting must be concrete from page one.
Setting must match or reflect the character. We are products of the landscape, hence expressions of the world we come from.
In the fantasy world you build, you can boil down the world with one question: where does the coffee come from? Gregg said you may read about a 25th C meeting on some planet on some solar system on some galaxy where the characters get together for a cup of coffee. Where did they get it? Where did the coffee come from? The writer has to know the economy, the politics, the everything about the world. It is the same for the world of 1985, even if you never mention it.
Yesterday’s homework was to expand the 1985 scenario for University City. (Year and place were suggested by the audience)
When you know the setting, the period and the place suggests story but, you are restricted by setting etc., but those restrictions help form the story, bring it into sharper focus.
A short story, with very few exceptions, starts with the main character. Short stories are reductive, they close down as you approach the end. Novels are expansive, you can explore almost everything about your character.
The beginning of a novel is often the last thing written. In Solomon’s case, he wrote a prologue last, as a way to bring us to the main character, his defense attorney.
For interesting characters, put them in hell. Heaven is when all the stories are over.
Cluster writing (or free writing) is writing down a whole bunch of things about something, ie., all the technology available in 1985. Let it flow, as fast as you can. For characters, write what your character dreams about. You write and write to get to your character.
An example is writing and writing till something catches fire, say an alcoholic woman. At that point the writer starts to follow her, see what her day is like, and eventually discovers that after work and shopping she gets home having bought no food, so she ends up going out to a bar with her boyfriend and drinking. That becomes the cycle. That’s her day, her routine. You now know your character a bit better.
In “The art of dramatic writing,” by Lajos Egri, he speaks of the Physical, social and psychological.
Physiology: sex, age, height, weight, skin, hair, eyes, posture, appearance, health, other.
Sociology: class, occupation, education, home life, IQ, religion, community, politics,
Psychology: frustrations,, sex life, morality, ambition, temperament, attitude, complexes, superstitions, imagination.
The rest of the class consisted of (a) assuming we are writing a ghost story and (b) building a character by filling the requirements listed above.
In general, Gregg free writes fifty or sixty pages to see of if his idea has legs. Then he writes an outline. He thinks its crazy not to do so but he named other authors who never write an outline and those who start with one. [If you recall the blog on Book Architecture, Horwitz suggested that you write the outline between drafts one and two. Considering that Horwitz’s draft one is close to free writing, his approach and Gregg’s are similar. Up to this point, anyhow]
Session 3 [Back with Solomon] Much of the workshop session delved into Solomon’s six key steps.
2.- Main Character. Character is what you do when no one is looking.
3.- Supporting Character
Novel Writing Creating Character – Suzanne Palmieri firstname.lastname@example.org
“The story is a character.” Sounds great, but does it help? A better approach would be to write a description of yourself. (First day’s homework) Narrate yourself for a little while. It will help with character description. You can also look in the mirror and compare yourself: to what you used to be, to what you want to be.
While doing so, try to do it with one word descriptors. An excellent example, from Shirley Jackson, “the house was vile.” Jackson obviously didn’t tell you anything about size, or color, or state of repair but you know all you need to know about that house.
I’m Suzanne. I always hated my name. Until five minutes ago. The word until automatically makes every reader know who she is. Get to the essence of who the character is w/o many words.
Use the science of Sociology to help create real and rounded characters. [Suzanne’s formal education includes a Master’s in Sociology and her day job (I presume) is based on that knowledge. However, it is hard to use Sociology, unless one knows Sociology.[Disclaimer: my daughter is a professor of Sociology so I could always ask her.]
Understanding that depth of character will come from the depth of understanding you have of yourself. [This goes to the first homework assignment. It also echoes parts of Sara Shepard’s opening remarks. (And what a remarkable career she has had) Her first book, which started her “Pretty Little Liars” series, had four characters, and all four were different versions of her, ie., at different times, the start, middle and end of high school. Shepard obviously had a pretty good idea of who she was]
Finding the balance between narrated description and the readers imagination. [I think here she means that you need to respect the reader’s intelligence and allow them to fill in the blanks. “The house was vile.”]
Breaking the rules. Allowed in the creative process. [Yeah. Why else do people make rules?]
When looking at character creation and using ‘real people,’ keep in mind that real people maybe a bit too complex to be characters. But you will do well if you stay with the essentials questions: who? What? Where? When? How? WTF? Stay true to these, figure out which are important to YOU and remember, it’s your world, your rules.
If the character doesn’t care about himself, why should anyone else.
Have you ever disliked someone?
If no one likes them (a specific character), they shouldn’t be in the book. [This is an interesting point, as it applies to baddies. Can they be all bad? Will we stop reading if they are. In Game Of Thrones Joffrey is despicable. I expected he would last till the end and then I would read/watch (I have dome both) while he gets what he deserved. The Hound was also bad, but in a very different way.]
Characters should be able to take criticism. Important when creating criticism in your characters.
Internal dialogue is important
if you find out something about a character that the character does yet not know, the reader will not be able to put the book down, ie., a character who is a rapist and doesn’t know it. [Not sure how that would work, but you get the idea.]
Basically Suzanne says you should look at yourself, your flaws, etc. and that will help you develop and describe, as well as give depth to those characters.
Give characters an issue. A conflict.
The ‘dream’ is on layaway. It is already yours, you are making payments and eventually you can go pick it up. [This refers to writing and becoming a published author]
Great inspirations. The way to get around work stoppages is through good characters because they make us write, they make us invested in them. She starts with a setting (shades of Solomon Jones).
Pinterest. https://www.pinterest.com/ the site is all about pictures, with no captions. Instantaneous image searches. It allows you to find pictures of whatever your character is wearing or where she lives or, whatever.
Music is important to her, instrumentals.
Listen to things out of your purview.
Soundtrack to games are designed to not distract you.
Dialogue – if you have to put descriptors, ie., he said, you said, then you don’t know the characters really well. A character done well has their own voice so no attributions are needed.
What does a character carry in his/her pockets, ie., To kill a Mockinbird.
Every villain is a hero in his own mind.
Bumper stickers on your car.
Look at what toxic people have as posters and paintings and things on their desk, on their fridge. [This person may have some issues with people near her]
Every character needs to have a motivation, a purpose. Something that they want.
Purpose means…we kill characters because they have a role or they push the plot forward and we get scared. Rule breaking gets to be a need. A small role, single appearance character can serve to make us understand the main character.
Suzanne mentioned the conversion of a bunch of characters into a single one, for instance a bunch of kids can become a single character, ie., ‘the boys,’ they play cards, drink wine, go to war, etc. No need to go any deeper than that.
Give a character a Myers-Briggs
Make a character a horoscope reader.
It was a miracle nothing broke, and indeed nothing broke, until it broke. I was thinking back to yesterday’s blog, when I mentioned my three Venezuelan cousins and how projectiles flew around their home.
When my parents went back to Cuba, ending our short-lived Venezuela adventure—a whole nother story—I was left behind for a couple months (I’m sure they didn’t mean to abandon me. . .though, come to think of it, I didn’t have their Cuban address), to finish my third year of high school. I stayed with my Aunt and Uncle and my three cousins. I didn’t mind. I didn’t want a repeat of the problems I encountered arriving in Caracas half way through the previous school year. And I loved my cousins.
The three of them were forever battling, throwing things around, showing no regard for all the glass and crystal around. At times it seemed the whole of their living room was made of glass, so I stayed out of those clashes. Most of the time. Another reason was my uncle, usually a calm, easy going person, a nice man really, until he appeared belt in hand. I didn’t want any part of it.
One weekday afternoon the four of us were playing catch in the living room, while the grown-ups were at work. Whatever we were using as a ball hit a ceramic fish sitting perfectly happy, minding its own business on a prominent end table. The fish, my cousins promptly recognized, was my aunt’s favorite.
“Now you are gonna get it,” they warned each other, arguing as to who was to blame, with no consideration given to who was the thrower or who muffed the catch. One thing was clear: we were all in trouble. Major, major trouble.
The fish, about eight inches high and about a foot long and thin, like most tropical reef fish, had broken into half a dozen pieces and a few chips.
“Maybe I can fix it,” I suggested.
All three loved the idea. Why not? At that age we believe anything is possible. In this case we were talking nothing less than magic.
I did the gluing on my youngest cousin’s desk, using what we had on hand, white glue (this happened eons ago, well before crazy glue), the kind of glue kids use on third grade projects. I took my time, applied glue in the right spots, fit the parts carefully and the fish was whole again and apparently solid enough. But the cracks were obvious. The fish looked awful. Every chink, chip and fissure showed a ghostly white.
“Coño, it looked better when it was broken,” my oldest cousin said.
That made no sense except it was true.
“I’ll paint it.” At this point we didn’t believe in magic that much, but I went ahead. I used a kid’s tempera set and did my best to cover the cracks, matching the many hues of the multicolored fish.
When my aunt and uncle came home the fish was back on its place of honor. No one noticed anything was amiss. No one said anything.
Some thirty years later, while visiting in Venezuela, we were talking about old times. The fish was nowhere in sight but something reminded me of the incident and I told my aunt the story.
“So that’s what happened!” My aunt clapped her hands. My aunt Julia was a formidable person, a woman with innate authority. Words came out of her mouth chiseled in stone.
“What? What happened?”
“Last year the fish fell apart. The maid swore she hardly touched it, that the feather duster barely grazed it and the whole fish went ‘poof.’ It disintegrated. She said it was as if a bomb hit it. She was in tears when she told me. I was miffed, I liked that fish very much, but she was a good maid and a careful worker, so I had to take her at her word.”
We had a big laugh. My aunt was quite amused. She liked the story of the fish even better than she’d liked the fish and was amazed that she had never noticed, that the fish had survived one move and all those many years of dusting.
I laughed, of course. And felt proud, but that quickly changed to relief. I can’t imagine how I’d have felt had she fired the maid.