It is one of those mornings. You know what I mean. Murphy seems to be dancing on your head while everything goes totally wrong. With a baby on my hip, and a toddler at my other side, I barely manage to get my kids out the door to school, jumping into the drop off line, getting them to their class lines with mere seconds to spare. As I sit there and watch my kids trundle into school, with their disheveled hair that I forgot to brush, their mismatched socks that they dug out of the laundry, their clothing ensemble that looks like it was chosen at random by a blind person, and I think "wow... I am not organized enough."
I roll through the grocery store with a grumpy infant, my three-year-old at my side trying to sneak random items into the cart every time my back is turned. I grab a box of cheese crackers and nestle them into the cart between the apples and the factory-produced, "I can't even pronounce half of these ingredients" commercially baked cookies. Passing me is a slim, trim, marathon running mom with a cart full of organic produce, locally baked five ingredient animal crackers, free-range turkey burgers, and bread baked from grain that has never seen so much as a drop of glyphosate in its short life. I think "wow, I am not feeding my kids well enough."
Moving on to the library, I see the cute little moms sitting with their toddlers. The moms have perfectly coiffed hair, manicured nails, and outfits straight out of a trendy boutique. The toddlers have amazing hair designs that probably took an hour straight to compose, and I can't help wonder how the moms get their toddlers to sit still that long when I can barely get any of my kids to hold still long enough to brush out most of the big rats before declaring it a moral victory and setting them free. I think "wow, I will never look good enough."
Reaching home, I set my toddler loose to wreak havoc on the family room, put the baby down for a nap, then crash on my comfy recliner amidst the mounds of clothing dubbed 'Mt Laundrysuvius'. Pulling out my phone, I idly scroll through social media, noting all the various posts about the latest study on infant sleep cycles, fifteen reasons why kids' shows are created by devil spawn, ten ways kids' shows are helping them to develop social skills, thirteen reasons why kids should never watch television at all, and I think "wow... I am never going to know enough".
The older kids come home from school and chaos ensues as they all vie for my attention. Snacks, television, homework, computer time, "you won't believe what the jerk at school did at recess today", and the inevitable "Mom, the science fair is tomorrow and I haven't even started my project!". I try to filter through the jumble of voices to figure out what actually needs to be done in that moment while giving my children enough attention that they know that I care about what they are saying. Meanwhile the hamster in my brain is running fast enough to break the sound barrier and begging for a break. I am ready to just snap at all of them "one at a time, I'm not Elastigirl!". Yet I know that snapping at them will break their hearts and give them the impression that mom just doesn't care. Enough of that, and the day will come when they won't want to speak to me at all. I can't help thinking "wow... I am just not patient enough".
Evening finally rolls around. After the circus of baths, showers, spraying hair detangler, looking for lost stuffed animals, reading stories, brushing teeth, reminding older children about their reading homework that is more important than what their friends are posting, realizing that one of the kids skipped teeth brushing and chiding them to get out bed and go brush, rocking the infant to sleep just in time for their noisy older siblings to come bounding in and waking them up, and the exhausting start to the cycle all over again. After the chaos quiets, and the little heads finally nod into sleep, I fall onto the couch, fighting tears, and I think "I'm just not enough."
A little body emerges from a bedroom and pads down the stairs. I am so ready to just scream, wanting a moment's peace, but I bite it back. Small arms wrap around my neck, a head leans on my shoulder, and I hear "I just wanted a hug. I love you so much, Mom."
I'm not going to fight the tears anymore. I let them go, snuggling the little person that I brought into this world and have shepherded through every step of the first years of life. I feel so terribly inadequate, but to that little one, I am the most amazing person in the universe. I am everything to them. In their eyes, I am enough, and more.
In truth... I am not enough. I will never be just 'enough'. I am so much more than that. Every hour of every day, I am learning and growing just as much as my kids are. Today, I was enough for what I needed to accomplish, and yet I am more than I was yesterday. Tomorrow, I will be more than I was today. I will be more than 'enough'. As my kids learn and grow, they need me to be 'more' in new ways, but not so much in others. 'Enough' changes and evolves just as much as I do. As much as they do. 'Enough' is not a destination, it is a journey.
My 'enough' is different than anyone else's. They do not define my journey. I do. And as hard as the days can be, as exhausting as it can be to be so thoroughly responsible for so many people, it can and will be the most rewarding journey I could ever take. I am more than enough. All I have to do is remind myself of that often enough, and someday, perhaps, I may actually come to believe it.
Sunday, October 13, 2019
Saturday, July 6, 2019
The Art of Storytelling: Part 1
Ever since I wrote The Taleweaver, I've been thinking about writing. More specifically, my personal style of writing. I like to brag that I can make a story out of literally anything. Seriously. I once made a story out of a dirty old pop can. You might say I have an overactive imagination.
The question to be answered is... how do I write my stories? Where do they come from? And what makes a good story?
The answer to the second question is easy. I have no idea. Sometimes dreams, sometimes randomness that pops up while watching movies or inane kids' shows. They just seem to happen without a whole lot of effort. Even when given a direct challenge to come up with a story based on a specific prompt, such as the aforementioned pop can, I really don't know how they just "pop up" in my head. Yes, it was a bad pun, I couldn't resist.
To answer the third question... I can't really answer that, either. I know what I think is a good story, I have a pretty good idea what my kids seem to think is a good story, but there are as many opinions about writing as there are stories! Probably more, truth be told. However, there are a few common elements between most literature that is considered "good" by the industry and the public. And in discussing that, we will explore the first question: how I write.
First, I want to make clear that I very rarely try to write, and even more rarely do I start writing at the beginning of a story. Most often, a story idea will just come to me, in bits and pieces, and I'll record those bits and pieces on paper or digitally. Or the occasional napkin, church program, even on my hand. Yes, my media varies. But the point is that my stories don't need a lot of effort to get started. I'll start working on a climax, or a tense confrontation, or at the introduction of the main protagonist. Deaths and funerals are, oddly enough, some of my favorite scenes to write. They are soul-wrenching, and getting the description correct without sounding sappy, cliched or overly dramatic is a tricky balancing act.
Not all of my stories get finished. Most don't. The vast majority are nothing but a few scenes, a rough outline, and a lot of metaphoric dust. I have a few that I could swear were put there by someone else, because I don't remember them at all.
A few, a glorious, wondrous, mentally exhausting few, have been turned into a complete saga. Actual books, completed end to end, then edited, chopped, shredded, and reconstructed. When a story turns into an entire world, it becomes far more than just a book. It is a place to visit, a place for my mind to wander and even play. The characters become friends, and I am so much more mentally invested in their journeys. While I have complete control over the stories, and I really hate having to kill off good characters, sometimes the story demands a sacrifice, and I agonize over it for days before finally acquiescing to the unknown forces that have produced the story, and write it the way it is meant to be.
So what is it that makes a "good" story? There are many elements, but the three that I consider most important are: a compelling plotline, beautiful and easily visualized settings, and a troupe of engaging characters that make you want to laugh, cry, scream, and send them to the woodshed all at various points in the story. Personally, I feel that if the main characters or main supporting characters don't make you absolutely furious with them at least once in the story, then you aren't doing your job as a writer.
Conversely, if your "bad guy"--who doesn't necessarily have to be an actual villain, just antagonistic toward your main character-- doesn't make you feel sorry for him at least once, again, you aren't doing your job. The best characters are the ones that feel real. That make you feel like they could be friends, or at least make you feel actual emotions. If my stories make you feel like you want to simply close the cover, walk away, and instantly forget the book's very existence, then I have utterly failed. At the least, even if you don't like the book, the characters, or the story, it should be memorable.
As for the settings, if the reader can't visualize even the faintest sketch of what the main character sees around them, the settings are ineffective, and therefore, it will drag on the book and make it nearly impossible to draw in the reader. World-building can be challenging, but it is worth the investment of time to do it well. It may involve hours of research, but nothing is more jarring than a character that brings a sword to a gunfight, or vice-versa.
The plotline must likewise be engaging, compelling, at the very least, interesting. The plot may be about the main character. It may be about some events in the world. Or some combination thereof. But it has to make a point. What many writers fail to realize is that everything they write carries strands of their personal beliefs and ideals. Even if the story seems to exist simply for its own sake, even if it exists merely to entertain, it will teach a lesson. For example:
This is the story of Freddie, my friend,
Who jumped out into traffic, and that is the end.
I'm afraid I can't recall the name of the author. I read this in a book many years ago.
Did you catch that? MANY years ago, and yet it has stuck in my mind this entire time. Why? It is funny, it is macabre, it is vaguely outraging... and there is a lesson in there, even if the author's intent was simply to be darkly amusing. Don't jump out into traffic.
I remember the main character. Freddie. I remember what he did, and what the implied outcome is. He was an idiot, and he died. But I remember.
Whether your story is short and simple, or whether it is a multi-book saga spanning centuries of time, it must be memorable. THAT is what makes a book truly great. Your reader may hate it, they may love it, or it may simply make them thoughtful. But if they remember it, then you have done your job properly.
In future posts, I will dig into these subjects more in-depth. Greater discussion about character development, plot, and world-building. If you can remember the base points, to have a memorable plot, setting, and characters, then you are on your way to being a truly great writer. It may seem elementary, even insultingly obvious. But there is a reason. It's true. It is the core of what writers do.
Happy writing!
The question to be answered is... how do I write my stories? Where do they come from? And what makes a good story?
The answer to the second question is easy. I have no idea. Sometimes dreams, sometimes randomness that pops up while watching movies or inane kids' shows. They just seem to happen without a whole lot of effort. Even when given a direct challenge to come up with a story based on a specific prompt, such as the aforementioned pop can, I really don't know how they just "pop up" in my head. Yes, it was a bad pun, I couldn't resist.
To answer the third question... I can't really answer that, either. I know what I think is a good story, I have a pretty good idea what my kids seem to think is a good story, but there are as many opinions about writing as there are stories! Probably more, truth be told. However, there are a few common elements between most literature that is considered "good" by the industry and the public. And in discussing that, we will explore the first question: how I write.
First, I want to make clear that I very rarely try to write, and even more rarely do I start writing at the beginning of a story. Most often, a story idea will just come to me, in bits and pieces, and I'll record those bits and pieces on paper or digitally. Or the occasional napkin, church program, even on my hand. Yes, my media varies. But the point is that my stories don't need a lot of effort to get started. I'll start working on a climax, or a tense confrontation, or at the introduction of the main protagonist. Deaths and funerals are, oddly enough, some of my favorite scenes to write. They are soul-wrenching, and getting the description correct without sounding sappy, cliched or overly dramatic is a tricky balancing act.
Not all of my stories get finished. Most don't. The vast majority are nothing but a few scenes, a rough outline, and a lot of metaphoric dust. I have a few that I could swear were put there by someone else, because I don't remember them at all.
A few, a glorious, wondrous, mentally exhausting few, have been turned into a complete saga. Actual books, completed end to end, then edited, chopped, shredded, and reconstructed. When a story turns into an entire world, it becomes far more than just a book. It is a place to visit, a place for my mind to wander and even play. The characters become friends, and I am so much more mentally invested in their journeys. While I have complete control over the stories, and I really hate having to kill off good characters, sometimes the story demands a sacrifice, and I agonize over it for days before finally acquiescing to the unknown forces that have produced the story, and write it the way it is meant to be.
So what is it that makes a "good" story? There are many elements, but the three that I consider most important are: a compelling plotline, beautiful and easily visualized settings, and a troupe of engaging characters that make you want to laugh, cry, scream, and send them to the woodshed all at various points in the story. Personally, I feel that if the main characters or main supporting characters don't make you absolutely furious with them at least once in the story, then you aren't doing your job as a writer.
Conversely, if your "bad guy"--who doesn't necessarily have to be an actual villain, just antagonistic toward your main character-- doesn't make you feel sorry for him at least once, again, you aren't doing your job. The best characters are the ones that feel real. That make you feel like they could be friends, or at least make you feel actual emotions. If my stories make you feel like you want to simply close the cover, walk away, and instantly forget the book's very existence, then I have utterly failed. At the least, even if you don't like the book, the characters, or the story, it should be memorable.
As for the settings, if the reader can't visualize even the faintest sketch of what the main character sees around them, the settings are ineffective, and therefore, it will drag on the book and make it nearly impossible to draw in the reader. World-building can be challenging, but it is worth the investment of time to do it well. It may involve hours of research, but nothing is more jarring than a character that brings a sword to a gunfight, or vice-versa.
The plotline must likewise be engaging, compelling, at the very least, interesting. The plot may be about the main character. It may be about some events in the world. Or some combination thereof. But it has to make a point. What many writers fail to realize is that everything they write carries strands of their personal beliefs and ideals. Even if the story seems to exist simply for its own sake, even if it exists merely to entertain, it will teach a lesson. For example:
This is the story of Freddie, my friend,
Who jumped out into traffic, and that is the end.
I'm afraid I can't recall the name of the author. I read this in a book many years ago.
Did you catch that? MANY years ago, and yet it has stuck in my mind this entire time. Why? It is funny, it is macabre, it is vaguely outraging... and there is a lesson in there, even if the author's intent was simply to be darkly amusing. Don't jump out into traffic.
I remember the main character. Freddie. I remember what he did, and what the implied outcome is. He was an idiot, and he died. But I remember.
Whether your story is short and simple, or whether it is a multi-book saga spanning centuries of time, it must be memorable. THAT is what makes a book truly great. Your reader may hate it, they may love it, or it may simply make them thoughtful. But if they remember it, then you have done your job properly.
In future posts, I will dig into these subjects more in-depth. Greater discussion about character development, plot, and world-building. If you can remember the base points, to have a memorable plot, setting, and characters, then you are on your way to being a truly great writer. It may seem elementary, even insultingly obvious. But there is a reason. It's true. It is the core of what writers do.
Happy writing!
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Taleweaver
The sun was just the smallest winking hint on the horizon, heralding a new day of light, color, sound, and mood. The Taleweaver stood at the door of his hut, looking out over the valley as the others finished their morning meals and set to their daily tasks.
The sun would set far too soon. He had much to do, and very little time.
Turning, he walked across the main room of his small but neat hut, passing the dishes that were washed and set in their places. He passed the laundry that was dried and folded, settled on the shelves. None of the mundane tasks of life would beset him today. He had to focus.
Settling in his favorite chair, he drew his loom close, and considered the basket at his side. The basket was always kept full, of course, and well-organized. The brightly colored balls of Plot, Character, and Setting were interspersed with the darker balls of Intrigue and Suspense that he used for contrast. These, he would always use lightly. He did not like tales that were woven mostly of dark threads. The children would have nightmares if he was too heavy handed with such tales.
Taking the ball of Plot in hand, he set his loom and wove some thread onto a shuttle, passing the threads back and forth. Shuttles of Character and Setting, with their rich variety, soon followed. The weaving was coming along nicely. Here and there, in just the right places, he would twist the threads of Plot. He couldn't help chuckling now and then as he added shimmering patches of Comic Relief, and a tear came to his eye as the thread of one Character was cut short in a terrible tragedy.
As the sun passed overhead at noonday, he paused, examining his work with a critical eye. It was coming along nicely, but he couldn't help the uneasy feeling that he had missed something. Was it a Plot thread out of place? Another Character thread needed for balance? Perhaps a Setting thread was too heavy early in the weaving...
He couldn't tell. He called on his wife and friends to examine his work, but they could not find the error, either. As usual, their support warmed his heart, but he still had the feeling that something was not right.
At last, he decided that whatever it was, it wasn't important enough to be addressed if so many could not find it. He continued his weaving, humming to himself as the colors mixed and shimmered, seeming to sing to him in the light of the afternoon sun. This would be one of his finest tales, the greatest of his works. The children would be so pleased.
The last of the threads were woven in place and neatly tied off, the balls of threads returned to the basket, and he sat back to examine the tale. It was beautiful, as he had hoped. His wife brought his supper to him, and, as usual, it was excellent. Her Validation stew, with just the right spicing of Positive Reinforcement, and Constructive Criticism, would give him the strength he needed to examine the tale one more time before he could present it to the others.
His thoughts slowed as dawning horror arose. There it was... a Plot Twist out of place. It seemed small, but as he examined the rest of the weaving, he could see how that one twist left the tale crying out hopelessly for missing context. And the weaving was complete... how could he repair it now?
Perhaps if he just removed that one twist. It was so small, it could have but little effect. Drawing his knife, a tool that seemed to ring out with sharpness, he nicked the single Plot thread and carefully removed the twist.
But as he did so, the rest of the tale came tumbling down into his despairing arms in a tangle of lost hopes and dreams. The one twist had been too tightly woven into the tale, and without it, the rest was meaningless.
His friend came in. "The children are gathered at the fireside. Is the Tale..." his voice broke off as he saw the mass of sadly broken threads, in the arms of the equally broken Taleweaver.
"Oh dear. Is there any way to fix it?" he asked gently, coming forward and helping the weaver out of the tangle.
"Not easily. In fact..."
The words were difficult to speak. So difficult, the weaver nearly choked on them. But they had to be said. With a heavy sigh, he shook his head.
"I'm sorry. But this tale will not be told tonight. It isn't... right. I can't tell it like this."
"The children will be so disappointed," his wife said, coming up behind him.
"No more so than if I present a tale not worthy to be told," he insisted. He examined the fallen tangle of threads once more, and determination rose within him. Resolutely, he took up the knife and began to separate the threads. While this tale had been a failure, it had its good points. He would not discard the threads. He would use them again, somehow.
Taking up the basket, he wound the loose threads of his failed tale neatly onto the balls. "I will have a tale for them tomorrow, far better than this," he promised. "But I will not tell them a tale that does not bring me joy to tell."
"We understand," his friend assured him, turning and walking out to join the fireside.
The weaver was saddened to lose so many hours of work, but he knew that in the end, his tales would be all the better for it. And if he started now, perhaps he would have time to weave an even longer tale for tomorrow's fireside. He still had a few threads of Plot lying loosely around his loom. Threads that were simply too good to just add back to the balls.
Taking up these threads, he loaded his shuttle, considered his loom, and began to weave.
The sun would set far too soon. He had much to do, and very little time.
Turning, he walked across the main room of his small but neat hut, passing the dishes that were washed and set in their places. He passed the laundry that was dried and folded, settled on the shelves. None of the mundane tasks of life would beset him today. He had to focus.
Settling in his favorite chair, he drew his loom close, and considered the basket at his side. The basket was always kept full, of course, and well-organized. The brightly colored balls of Plot, Character, and Setting were interspersed with the darker balls of Intrigue and Suspense that he used for contrast. These, he would always use lightly. He did not like tales that were woven mostly of dark threads. The children would have nightmares if he was too heavy handed with such tales.
Taking the ball of Plot in hand, he set his loom and wove some thread onto a shuttle, passing the threads back and forth. Shuttles of Character and Setting, with their rich variety, soon followed. The weaving was coming along nicely. Here and there, in just the right places, he would twist the threads of Plot. He couldn't help chuckling now and then as he added shimmering patches of Comic Relief, and a tear came to his eye as the thread of one Character was cut short in a terrible tragedy.
As the sun passed overhead at noonday, he paused, examining his work with a critical eye. It was coming along nicely, but he couldn't help the uneasy feeling that he had missed something. Was it a Plot thread out of place? Another Character thread needed for balance? Perhaps a Setting thread was too heavy early in the weaving...
He couldn't tell. He called on his wife and friends to examine his work, but they could not find the error, either. As usual, their support warmed his heart, but he still had the feeling that something was not right.
At last, he decided that whatever it was, it wasn't important enough to be addressed if so many could not find it. He continued his weaving, humming to himself as the colors mixed and shimmered, seeming to sing to him in the light of the afternoon sun. This would be one of his finest tales, the greatest of his works. The children would be so pleased.
The last of the threads were woven in place and neatly tied off, the balls of threads returned to the basket, and he sat back to examine the tale. It was beautiful, as he had hoped. His wife brought his supper to him, and, as usual, it was excellent. Her Validation stew, with just the right spicing of Positive Reinforcement, and Constructive Criticism, would give him the strength he needed to examine the tale one more time before he could present it to the others.
His thoughts slowed as dawning horror arose. There it was... a Plot Twist out of place. It seemed small, but as he examined the rest of the weaving, he could see how that one twist left the tale crying out hopelessly for missing context. And the weaving was complete... how could he repair it now?
Perhaps if he just removed that one twist. It was so small, it could have but little effect. Drawing his knife, a tool that seemed to ring out with sharpness, he nicked the single Plot thread and carefully removed the twist.
But as he did so, the rest of the tale came tumbling down into his despairing arms in a tangle of lost hopes and dreams. The one twist had been too tightly woven into the tale, and without it, the rest was meaningless.
His friend came in. "The children are gathered at the fireside. Is the Tale..." his voice broke off as he saw the mass of sadly broken threads, in the arms of the equally broken Taleweaver.
"Oh dear. Is there any way to fix it?" he asked gently, coming forward and helping the weaver out of the tangle.
"Not easily. In fact..."
The words were difficult to speak. So difficult, the weaver nearly choked on them. But they had to be said. With a heavy sigh, he shook his head.
"I'm sorry. But this tale will not be told tonight. It isn't... right. I can't tell it like this."
"The children will be so disappointed," his wife said, coming up behind him.
"No more so than if I present a tale not worthy to be told," he insisted. He examined the fallen tangle of threads once more, and determination rose within him. Resolutely, he took up the knife and began to separate the threads. While this tale had been a failure, it had its good points. He would not discard the threads. He would use them again, somehow.
Taking up the basket, he wound the loose threads of his failed tale neatly onto the balls. "I will have a tale for them tomorrow, far better than this," he promised. "But I will not tell them a tale that does not bring me joy to tell."
"We understand," his friend assured him, turning and walking out to join the fireside.
The weaver was saddened to lose so many hours of work, but he knew that in the end, his tales would be all the better for it. And if he started now, perhaps he would have time to weave an even longer tale for tomorrow's fireside. He still had a few threads of Plot lying loosely around his loom. Threads that were simply too good to just add back to the balls.
Taking up these threads, he loaded his shuttle, considered his loom, and began to weave.
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