Always be ready for Paris

About a week ago I realized that my passport had expired at the end of February.  And I immediately had a panic attack.  What if I needed to cross the border into Canada or Mexico?  What if suddenly someone wanted to whisk me away to Paris or Argentina?  What if I just wanted to take a quick flight to the Bahamas?

Now I know there are lots of people out in the world who don’t have passports.  And I know it isn’t necessary to leave this country to have a wonderful vacation or travel to places I’ve never been.  But a passport to me means freedom, and I value freedom more than most things in life.  I don’t want limits to my life.  And not being able to go where I want to go when I want to go limits me.  Even if I don’t choose to take advantage of it.  I’ve had a passport since I was 18 years old, and I don’t intend to give up the privilege now.

I realize that travel for some may seem like a luxury, but for me it’s a necessity.  So today I slipped over to the UPS Store and had a passport picture taken (pleasantly better than the last one, which could have been mistaken for a mug shot), and tonight I’m filling out my paperwork and mailing it off tomorrow.  And I’ll sit by the mailbox until it comes, in 6 weeks or so.  Let’s just hope I have no international travel emergency before then.

Oh, and if you don’t have a passport, get one.  Even if you never use it, never go anywhere outside your home state, you’ll always know you can, and that is empowering.

Are Your Characters Material Girls?

I’ve been thinking a lot about stuff lately.  Not stuff in the big picture kind of way but actual stuff.  Things.  Material possessions.

Mostly because I am trying to figure out a way to get my stuff, which has been in storage and at friends’ houses, down here to SC.  Wondering what I need, what I don’t need.  Now it stands to reason that if I haven’t needed it in 2 years I probably don’t need it at all.  And that may be true.  But some of that stuff is part of who I am.  My Uncle Bob’s cane from 1900.  My boxes and boxes of books. The wonderful pottery my oldest daughter has made over the years.  The childhood creations of my youngest daughter.  My snowglobe collection.  Silly items, some of them, and unnecessary in the great scheme of things.  But things that hold significance to me. Things that chart a life. Not define it, but trace its roots, and its path.

I got rid of much of my stuff when I went into storage: furniture, kitchen ware, clothes, jewelry, my old TV.  I’m not terribly materialistic, and those things held no importance to me.  But my Bee Gees albums from the 70s, well, those are part of my past.  And the Anne of Green Gables books, and the Black Stallion books, and the snow globes from all over the world, they are a time capsule of the Christy I was at different times in my life.  The Christy in bellbottoms crying over How Can You Mend a Broken Heart? or singing along to How Deep is Your Love? Or David Bowie singing Changes while we danced around in our underwear in the college dorm.  Or the first time I read Anna Karenina and thought my life had been changed forever.

I think the things that are important to a person say a lot about who that person is.  I find I don’t have much in common with people who treasure their cars (though I did love my Saab convertible) or their jewelry (though I have my great grandmother’s engagement ring and wouldn’t part with it for anything).  But stuff for stuffs sake doesn’t interest me.  You can keep your Mercedes and your 5000 sq foot house and your big screen TV.

I’ve been applying this to my writing lately in interesting ways.  Showing a character’s attachment to certain possessions can tell us so much about him without ever having to say anything else.  Say a character has a collection of maps papering her bedroom wall but has never been anywhere outside of her hometown.  You can feel the longing without ever saying she really wants to get out of where she is.  You just know she is too afraid to go anywhere outside her comfort zone but wants to desperately.

Think about the material things you value.  Then think about all that other junk cluttering your life.  Why do you keep it?  I know a woman who collects margarine tubs – thousands of them.  When asked why she keeps them all, she says, you never know when you might need them.  Is that fear really about being without a margarine tub?  My guess is it that it is a fear of something much deeper, like empty cupboards.  I’ll let the professionals figure her out, but I can use that same sort of thing to show the fears and wants of a character in a way that makes us empathize with her, understand her.

Get to know the things your characters want, and need, and treasure.  I bet you’ll get to know them much better.  Then do the same with your own stuff.  What is important to you and what does that tell you about yourself?

The Magic of Revision

I have a story that I love that hasn’t found a home yet.   I really believe in this story.  That said, I know it could be better.  I sent it out to a few places, against my better judgment but antsy to get it into the world, and sure enough, it was rejected.  So when an astute reader I know offered to take a look (thanks Gary) I sent it off to him and he replied with a wonderfully insightful email about where it needs work.  Lots of great stuff about thinking of the story as a play and keeping the action all on stage.  Just what I needed to remember for this particular piece.

Now it’s time to dig back into it and make it the story I know it can be.  Revision time.  Unlike lots of writers, I love the revision process, especially when I’ve been away from the story for a while and can look at it with fresh eyes.  As my friend Kristen-Paige Madonia says, “Revision is where the magic happens.”  And I believe that.  It’s where things begin to bubble to the surface, things that you never knew were down there under all that pretty prose.  Deeper meanings.  Themes.  I’m often surprised when I’m heavy into revision by the things I find.  It’s like discovering a story by someone else.

Supposedly, Hemingway rewrote the ending to Farewell to Arms 39 times.  I know it sounds like a lot, but I totally get it.  Sometimes you just can’t get the words quite right, and you have to keep trying and trying.  As Truman Capote said, “I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil.”  Or in my case, the delete key.

Now I’m not talking line editing. I’m talking serious revision, as in re-visioning.  Really looking at the story in a different way, from a different angle.  It may mean that I slice and dice some of the stuff I like the best, but if that’s what it takes, that’s what I’ll do.  Because in the long run it’s not about those (in my mind) brilliant sentences. It’s about the story.  About making the story as a whole brilliant, or at least as close to brilliant as I can make it.

I’m excited to revisit this story.  There are some stories I get sick of before I can get them right, but I don’t think that will happen with this one.  It’s my favorite kind of story, full of normal people behaving badly. The beginning and the ending work for me – it’s just the middle (or muddle) that needs the work.  At least, I think.  But I can’t be sure until I get in there and dig.  Who knows?  I might find something I never knew was there.