Let me state from the first, the events of yesterday were unforeseeable and unavoidable. None of the actions taken by all parties were neither premeditated or predictable. However, in case a group of panicked Puritans is already headed to my house, armed with ropes and lit torches, I wish to make the following declaration: I am not now, nor have I ever been, a witch. Due to a past Halloween party, I own a hooded, black cape. This garment is a mass-marketed item, as the manufacturer’s label attests. To my knowledge, said cape has no supernatural powers but it is a surprisingly warm, yet light-weight garment. Yesterday, I donned the cape in question prior to walking down my private drive at sunset. The cape’s hood was in an upright position to keep my ears warm. Said cape is voluminous and anyone seeing me from a distance would not have been able to make out my “regular” clothing beneath its folds. When I started my walk, I had no idea the neighbors were entertaining young children on their front lawn. Consequently, I was as surprised as the children when they saw me coming over the hill. Children can…
As a teen, I never cared for love stories. While other girls were sighing and crying over the latest sugary “boy-meets-girl”, I jumped into the classics, swearing romance book writers conspired to create Cinderella pap to weaken women’s minds. (Mom said I was foolish but she kept a soft spot for Barbara Cartland.) Not that I didn’t believe in love! I was just felt very awkward and self-conscious reading about it. I knew that if/when I fell in love, I’d never write tell the world about it. Then I saw the South in October. Yes, I know people aren’t supposed to fall in love with places. And if any part of the states is known for autumn scenes, it’s New England, not Alabama. But I did and the beauty of Autumn in Dixie was then a fairly well kept secret. So I had no idea, when I crossed the Mississippi River, that I was stepping into a place of transcendent beauty. I spent that first visit walking with my mouth half-open, about the Technicolor foliage that appeared around every bend. I found the South and Southerners fascinating and loved their complex, stubborn relationship with this place but more than anything,…
I’ve been thinking about pinch points lately, those intervals in a story when you realize how difficult the hero’s task is. They occur (optimally) at the 3/8th and 5/8th point in a story and structurally, they serve a two-fold purpose: to show how vulnerable the hero(ine) is and what will happen if he/she loses. But structure never interests me as much as character and pinch points teach and clarify these better than anything else. The same thing is true about people. Pinch points are what we learn in the worst of times. The axiom says failure teaches more than success and the essence of a pinch point is failure. For example, the first pinch point of LOTR’s The Fellowship of the Ring happens at Weathertop, when Frodo succumbs to temptation and puts on the Ring. He becomes vulnerable to Sauron’s most powerful agents, the Nazgul, and the resulting injury nearly destroys our hero. Frodo never fully recovers from the experience but both the reader and he learn from it. Frodo shows a resilience and physical fortitude after the injury that most other beings don’t possess. And his character is strengthened after the failure. Strong as they are, the Nazgul never successfully distract…
I like to believe that somewhere out there, someone reads what I write. (To quote one of my favorite plays, In a world where carpenters get resurrections, anything’s possible) If so, they’ve seen alterations in the name of this place, patiently reading while I tried to find the phrase captures the idea and atmosphere I’m trying to create here. The search hasn’t been easy. Initial Title: A good start but not yet there. I started out with “The Stories that Follow You Home” a phrase I love because I believe some stories do just that. While trends change and popular poems, books and plays appear and vanish like popular music recordings, some stories put down roots in your soul and imagination. They stick with you, like a good friend, and when you re-read them, you find gifts you didn’t see before. I love those rewarding tales and the people who feel the same way. I love people fascinated by the structure and function, and power of story. But, what are those people called? Is there a term for a lover of stories? We all know what lovers of books are called: bibliophiles. It comes from two old Greek words, biblion (meaning…
It’s no secret that I love stories: reading, writing, or telling them. Reading stories is easiest for me to do; all I need are the words and my glasses. Once I find the narrator’s voice, we’re off and all I have to look for is when to take a breath. Telling a story is scary and a whole lot of fun, especially if there’s an appreciative audience. When I’m telling stories, the hardest thing for me to know is when to shut up. (I’ll admit it, I’m a natural-born ham.) Writing stories is a different cat altogether; in fact, writing is a cat with claws. As soon as my fingers hit the keys and letters show up on the screen, my inner critic emerges and starts pointing out the obvious flaws. At that point, the tale that was bubbling and aching to get out locks itself behind a gate in my brain. So, what do I do? I’ve learned to take a walk. Taking a walk is something Stephen King mentioned in his wonderful book, On Writing. (Seriously, I’ve read a stack-load of books on the craft of putting down prose and this one makes me believe I can do…