I have to credit Joe with suggesting the idea, just in time for writers plowing through NaNoWriMo. Seriously, it’s November 9, already. Have you hit a creativity wall yet?
Yes? Here’s a crazy idea: Adoption.
Photo by Playing With Brushes
But let’s not limit ourselves to introducing a new to an adopted main character; we also have adoptive parents and birth moms to think about.
Then you can get really wild: a biological grandmother who’s son’s (witchy) girlfriend up and relinquishes her granddaughter to a strange family. What if it’s a secret from the rest of the community? What if she blames her son and tries to steal back the baby?
Helloooo, subplot! Okay … now we’re getting somewhere.
These secrets and objectives (grandmother wanted a grandbaby in her life) work well with character-driven literary fiction. What about commercial fiction, where the plot line drives the story?
The adopted hero’s journey, the searching and reuniting, the fallout with the adoptive parents … These are potential adventures can be written as emotionally wrought; replete with pitfalls and disappointments.
Along the way, writers can show character change—the protagonist begins to understand her own identity, fitting the pieces together as she reunites with her birth family. She matures and accepts that while her destiny changed the day she was given away, she can now begin to shape her own future.
The “What If?” question
Adoptees wonder: What if I’d been raised by my birth family? Who would I have turned out to be?
Birth moms think: What if I’d kept my baby? Would I have ultimately done a better job?
Adopted parents probably wouldn’t ever admit: What if I’d been able to conceive, would my biological child have loved me more? Would we have had a better connection?
Avoiding Clichés
Just a note about stereotypes. Readers have seen the messed up adoptee, the perfect adoptive parents who only have unconditional love for their child. Try to mix it up a bit. With adoption happiness and celebration, there are also feelings of loss, grief, and confusion.
By acknowledging all—or at least more—sides of the issue, readers will come away with a deeper appreciation of your characters. Because remember, even protagonists have to have weak qualities and experience disappointments and setbacks. And your bad guy, the “Big Boss Troublemaker” (thank you Kristen Lamb), needs to have some good qualities.
For further reading:
• Read more about Adoption in Fiction, part 1 and part 2, at Elizabeth Craig’s blog
• Check out Joe Bunting’s post, Why You Should Write About Orphans
• Learn more about adoption stereotypes at Lost Daughters, a blogging project by adult female adoptees.
PRACTICE
Tell us about your adopted character/adoption plotline idea. Sketch it out in general terms for fifteen minutes, and post it in the comments when you're finished. I’m happy to give you feedback as to the direction it might take.
Her own rebellion had landed her here — pregnant, and at the mercy of her parents and others, who’ve already stipulated that her only alternative shall be to give the child up for adoption. She thinks back, trying to remember other adoptions in her family tree — and of course, there’s Grandpa and Grandma, who adopted R.B., who oddly, from her few memories of him, resembled both his adoptive parents. Then she realizes for the first time — her eyes narrow with the realization — that Grandpa and Grandma probably conceived R.B. before they were legally married, the socially acceptable thing in their day being to then “adopt” the child.
She is in the middle of passionately hating her mother and father: Mother that night, hands-on-hips, hissing “Well — are you happy with yourself?” at her, eyes hard as two small stones; her father, heading off for the birds-and-bees talk with her ten-year-old brother with smoke coming out of his ears, ready to point fingers and expound upon the sins of the denizens of both genders. That kid’s fixin’ ta get an earful, she thought, half sadly, half sardonically; but it’s no more than what they deserve.
She has no idea yet about the major depression, the suicide attempts, that hollowed-out, almost out-of-body quality of the disorder which often interrupts the raising of the children she’s had within her marriage, the hours of research, the placing of the permitted note in the state’s file on the child, the years of hoping against hope. She can’t know yet that her son will grow up in a good home and, at the time they finally meet, will prove to be a successful person, a schoolteacher with two children of his own.
So is it true that love wins out in the end, with that happy outcome? Does it cancel out the damage done in the name of rebellion, of family, of propriety and all of the best that people could bring themselves to do at the time? To me, there’s not an easy answer to that question.
I just want to hug her!
John, nice practice! I love this phrase, “hollowed-out, almost out-of-body quality of the disorder.” So beautiful.
That section seems to be a POV shift, though, isn’t it? You go from the daughter in the first paragraph to the mother in the second. A little choppy (but that’s what practice is for, right?).
There’s so much here, so much I don’t know that I’d like to. Those questions you ask at the end are so compelling. I want to get deeper in this story, so you must have done something right. 🙂
John,
What a great excerpt … I, too, resonated with this description “hollowed-out, almost out-of-body quality of the disorder” … to describe a birthmother’s loss. I think that the POV is the same, unless I’m mistaken: it’s the birthmother, throughout. First a daughter who got pregnant, then the same person who gave a baby away. Perhaps only a transition in time, or simply a clarification that this whole practice takes place, when: the point when she tells her parents she’s pregnant, right? The shift that I see is at the very end: from 3rd person “she” throughout, to “To me …” at the very end.
Anyway, I do think that you captured a lot of the feelings that a young mother relinquishing her baby would feel. …
My Mom called, she was so excited. “You’ll never guess…” she said.
“What?“ I said.
“They are taking St. Therese’s relics on tour and they are bringing them here! Here in Washington. “
I could hear her nearly hyperventilating.
“Wow! We have to go,” I said.
“Yes, I’ll call your Dad and get back to you. Let’s go, I can’t wait,” she squealed with excitement.
That night I told my roommate a few of the St. Therese stories that are woven into my life fabric. She seemed most impacted by a story about my Mom. She went through years of fertility treatments, followed by years of trying to adopt. She was told it was a long shot because they didn’t make enough money. Her mother told her to pray the novena to St. Therese and her prayers would be answered. She prayed the novena. She prayed over and over and over. One night she went to bed and dreamed that St. Therese was handing her a baby girl bathed in glowing white light. No sooner than she took the child into her hands, the phone rang waking her. It was the adoption agency telling her they had a little girl for her. She woke my father, telling him it was a miracle. Later, on my third birthday, my Mom overheard a friend telling me, “Happy Birthday Little Flower.” She asked him why he said that, knowing St. Therese is also known as The Little Flower of Jesus. He said, “Don’t you know? Today is St. Therese’s feast day. Your daughter and St. Therese are connected.” She was stunned, and so was my roommate when I told her that story.
The next day we made plans to go to St. Theresa’s parish in Federal Way. There were so many people planning on going that we had to meet at a park and ride to bus in. We parked and joined a group of about 50 people waiting for a bus. A tall man locked eyes with me and approached. He looked only at me, made a little small talk, then proceeded to tell me all about the church. He told me about the architecture, he told me about the bell, he told me about every piece of art inside of the church. He told me what to look at, and when to look at it when I entered the church. He never broke eye contact. When he was done, he just smiled and walked away.
The bus was crowded. I sat next to my mom. My dad had to sit across the aisle from us, next to a girl we didn’t know. It seemed her parents were sitting in front of us. But, I wasn’t paying close attention. I was too excited. It felt like we were on our way to a rock concert. My Mom was giddy, and seemed proud to be with me. I wasn’t used to that. We reminisced about St. Therese’s role in our family history, and she told me a little about what to expect at the church. When we arrived at the church hundreds of people were overflowing the parking lot. I had never been a part of something religious that involved so many people. We got in back of a line, and began the long wait to get inside. I held my rosary like a child holds their blankie, comforted by it’s beads in my hands. It was my special rosary from Vatican City made of pressed rose petals. Several people commented on the smell of roses, and on how beautiful they thought it was. Nearly two hours later we were almost in the church. I had been trying desperately to ignore the woman and her daughter in front of me. I had been trying to force these thoughts out of my mind: I thought her hair looked just like mine. I thought her height and shape were just like mine. I thought her daughter, well, I couldn’t really think about her daughter. She was blowing my mind. But, my Dad did. He thought about the daughter. He positioned himself between my Mom and I, and whispered in my mom’s ear, “Doesn’t she look a lot like Tami.” I tried to pretend I didn’t hear him. My heart started to race. He got a little louder as he turned to me and said, “Hey, that girl looks a lot like you, don’t you think? I almost started talking to her once because I thought it was you.” I laughed nervously, but didn’t speak. In my head I was fixated on the woman in front of me, never mind that her daughter looks exactly like me but a couple of inches taller. We weaved our way toward the door another 15 minutes or so. Suddenly, I looked to my right and my God Mother was standing right next to me. She lives a few hours away. We don’t see each other often, but we write on birthdays and Easter. I threw my arms open, and hugged her while my body began to shake. I can’t believe you’re here, I said. And we found each other despite this crowd. She started crying, and said, “My blessed one, my blessed one, I’m so happy to see you.” At that particular moment, she was to my right, my adopted mother was to my left, and the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about, was directly in front of me. I started crying. “Mom, do you have a tissue,” I said. As my Mom was searching through her purse, the woman in front of me handed me a tissue over her shoulder without turning around. I almost fainted. But then I heard the gentleman’s voice from the park and ride in my head, guiding me through just what to do. It was like one of those audio tours you do on vacation. As I continued my out of body audio tour I came to a poem written by St. Therese. My jaw dropped. It was nearly word for word a poem in my junior high journal. How could this be? I continued moving forward into the chapel. The long line weaved through the pews like a giant devotee python. Then I made eye contact with the daughter. We were in a single file line, and she was two people in front of me. I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Directly in front of me was the woman. She paced four or five steps backward without looking and handed me another tissue over her shoulder.
*I have so much more to say. This is a very rough outline of a true story. I think I want to change it to third person and add much more detail. I’m glad this prompt got me started. I’m going to get some sleep and take a new direction in the morning.
This was very interesting, Tamera. Lots of emotion here, and it felt very true. Good luck on your next draft. 🙂
Tamera,
Wow, wow. This story is so, so compelling. I love the religious/mystical aspects of it, the coincidences that may not really be coincidences after all. I also love how the adoptive father is truly interested about what he sees/notices. His first instinct is to find out more, not push the physical similarities aside and try to hide from the truth.
I’m also intrigued as to why the “woman” doesn’t turn around. She seems to anticipate the girl’s every emotion … I hope that you’ll connect with me and let me know where this writing is going, and if I can help in any way!
Laura
HAPPY NEW YEAR 2018
http://www.to3alamnet.com/
Thank You.