Today, I'm excited to introduce Katie Axelson as our newest regular contributor. After a grueling selection process where I made several people cry, Katie emerged as a victor (Hunger Games style). Katie is a professional freelance writer working on her first novel. Follow her on Twitter and check out her blog. Glad to have you, Katie!
Photo By Lorena Cupcake
Let me tell you a secret: Universal characters are boring. Everyday characters are dull. Trying to create universal characters doesn't work.
Rather, the opposite: the more unique you make your characters and their surroundings, the more universal your story becomes. Janet Burroway calls this the universal paradox.
So how do you make your characters more unique and less generic?
Be Specific
The more specific you are in your setting and character-development, the more you open up the piece to the reader. As readers, we don’t want to walk through some stereotypical town.
We want to be the 15-year-old with pig-tail braids, pink bangs, and a plaid skirt walking through Thomasville, North Carolina, passing by the giant chair on our way to Monkeez Brew for a latte.
Rather than aiming for someone or something typical, write about quirky Glenda doing Bikram yoga on the top of a volcano: a specific person doing a specific thing in a specific place.
These details give the reader something to latch onto and someone to visualize. They let readers travel the world without ever leaving the comfort of home.
Who is the quirkiest character you've ever come up with?
PRACTICE
Pick a setting familiar to you but one that is also unique and quirky. It doesn’t have to be where you live. It could be a place you’ve vacationed or even somewhere you’ve heard about a lot.
For fifteen minutes write a piece using the culture of the town, the vernacular of the people, and the local cuisine. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments.
Jump right into the conversation; be part of the community. Be sure to read and comment on other pieces too.
You made a GREAT choice Joe. Katie, great post!
Agreed!
Thank you, Capitol, for not killing me. Sorry to the others who were slain.
Katie, congrats, looking forward to many more posts
Thanks, Suzie!
Thanks, Jim! I appreciate it!
Hello, Katie!
I was actually discussing something similar on #yalitchat last night. The problem with many protagonists is that they tend to be more universial, therefore letting side characters with better lines and more colorful personality might steal the spotlights.
I’m at school, but I’ll share my solution for that later.
I look forward to hearing more
Okay, finally here. Let’s say I took a few mental detours.
Funny enough, one of my tweets in #yalitchat inspired a blog post: http://jenniferrhubbard.blogspot.com/2012/08/making-main-character-main.html
By the way, what I was referring to earlier is called in at least one circle “Designated Protagonist Syndrome”. [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DesignatedProtagonistSyndrome] Basically, the supporting cast outshines the main character.
One solution I proposed is to basically assign the “hero” role onto a supporting character. That character becomes the “sane man” of his/her group and the world, and therefore comes with all the potential dullness or that comes with it.
And then you make the real protagonist the zanier sidekick that develops to take that hero role while retaining his/her colorful personality and sympathy.
This doesn’t work with all stories though. The narrator of my novel WIP might fall into this.
So another solution is to do what you suggested and be specific. Make sure the protagonist is fleshed out, with friends and hobbies and aspirations and quirks. (Blueberries!)
I might do this prompt later on. I already have a location in mind.
Welcome back. I would be interested in reading a piece written this way, Chihuahua.
Would you agree that “quirky of mind” is more important that “quirky of appearance”? The protagonist of my latest novel is a guy who loves his wife so much that he reckons her potential could be maximized if he killed himself. Hey, it’s a comedy!
That’s incredible. In your case, yes, I would agree with that.
PJ, I like it when mind and appearance meld without becoming stereotypical, but quirky minds are the bomb
Sorry, Suzie… I’m not sure what you mean by “quirky minds are the bomb.”
Ah well PJ, you must talk proper. Let’s see in proper talk – “quirky minds are far superior to the quirky window dressing”.
Substance is key.
Avoiding characters who are all front and no substance, “fur coat and no knickers” characters
Fur coat and no knickers…! hmmm… I change my mind about all that “mind” business.
This whole conversation is incredibly quirky. Very nice.
Alfred Henry was a fiddler, he couldn’t keep still. For forty five years he had fidgeted, for twenty eight years he fiddled. It was difficult to describe him without mention of the child catcher from Vulgaria. It wasn’t that he looked like Sir Robert Helpmann, he was bald on top with a ring of ginger hair. His nose did protruded like the vile baddie and his lips were a thinly drawn line. A slim man resembling a long length of snot dangling from a child’s nose, he was not well liked.
In the evenings he played violin in the window of his apartment that overlooked the playground. He serenely led the bow backward and forward over the strings creating beautiful music, he favoured Mahler, he smiled each time a child heard the notes carried on the wind to the swings. They would turn and point at Alfie then continue swinging, or run to the slide.
Alfie worked as a cashier at the local “SupaSaver” hypermarket, he had started in the stock department, filling up the shelves with processed, packaged foods, so full of additives they were probably atomic bomb proof. A couple of years into his employment a new manager came and with a clean sweep moved everyone from their comfort zone to the next station. In Alfie’s case this meant a move to the tills, dealing with people, he was not best pleased. He made the best of it, robbing a bit here, stealing a little there, enough to make it worthwhile without it being enough to arouse suspicion.
Alfie had aspirations, a long term plan that involved a motorcycle, no not just a motorcycle but a Harley Davidson and a trek across America. In his wardrobe he had a garment bag and each day after his shift he would drop in whatever dollars he had procured that day. He played the violin for the same amount of time, ten dollars equal to 10 minutes in Alfie’s head.
Unfortunately for Alfie he never made his trip, he fiddled in another way and a vigilante mob attacked unmercifully till he died, a thinly drawn smile on his lips. The money, when found was anonymously donated to the playground fund.
I’m amazed by this full story written with such economy. I love the 2nd line so much I’d like to steal it!
Woah, nice dramatic ending. I wanted to take his trip though.
Katie
Wonderful, magical quirkiness! The way you contrast his description against the children, even likening him to a child’s runny nose, is so subtle and smart. I love the twist at the end of the money being donated to the playground. Your stories make me want to sit with you for a long chat at your kitchen table drinking tea and soaking up your charming accent. Please don’t tell me that you don’t like tea, I couldn’t bear it!
Beck, I am a coffee drinker by passion, a tea drinker by pragmatism, and my digestive system likes the cool mint tea I make with herbs from out back.
I love to drink double espressos in the sun in Madrid, my favourite city. Tea is imbibed at my friends’ homes because they make this beautiful tea that a spoon can stand up in, it is so thick and strong. It is the only drink to have when chatting to mates.
Have just started meeting people in total honesty and we don’t need any drink for that; we stand in car parks, we meet in supermarkets, we are drawn to each other and in those places where the air is thick with reality we quench our souls on the one true drink.
I am on a mission and I am loving it.
Fabulous! Kind of broke my heart he didn’t take that trip… but I imagine him in heaven with a fiddle in one hand a hand’s free hog.. taking an epic tour. Great piece.
ahahahah … wonderfully quirky. This lonely life’s actually sad. But you’ve written him so independent. Until the end, when he fiddled the mob.
some words don’t translate, or maybe I have a broader language spectrum. I looked fiddle up before replying.
I think, I may have been too economical with the language. I discussed the playground fund with my beautiful husband – I wanted to suggest without being implicit or explicit but maybe a charity for child clerical abuse or some such charity would have pointed people there.
The first time it happened I was driving 95 on the two-lane
highway that whips around Snake River. I
love that road, the curves like the body of a guitar turned on its side, and
the way you can slide into them, feeling your car shimmy and then bank hard,
and how you can hear the tires kicking gravel off the road’s shoulder.
I had the windows down, and the river was rushing by, and
the sun was in that spot where you can’t see right even if you have sunglasses
on, which I did. I shut my eyes for just
a second and I had this vision where I see the next big curve, maybe a quarter
of a mile away, and there’s a white highway truck pulling out from the side
road marked by a sign that reads Mt. Judea Road, and my Miata comes shooting
towards it, and I can’t stop, and when the truck hits me, I see the windshield,
the glass coming apart like diamonds right at my face, and my body goes tight.
My heart was thumping, and I hit the brakes. I was shaking – even my toes were shaking,
which I didn’t know was possible. I was
going so fast when I pull over that I almost hit the railing. To my left is Mt. Judea Road, and there’s the
white highway truck, and it’s already in the middle of the road, and I just
missed it.
After I stopped sobbing, I reached under the seat where I
keep my bottle of vodka hidden, and I took a swig. I felt like I’d had a revelation, like I’d
been spared because I might do great things, and for a week after I didn’t
shoplift once, and I didn’t, well, indulge in what one of my old boyfriends
used to call the double body blessing, and I stayed away from Snake River.
And then on a Friday, when I was downtown, it happened
again, I blinked and I saw a little movie of a yellow dog, some kind of lab
mix, and it was dragging a leash, and a man in a red shirt was chasing it, and
then the man fell and his glasses broke, and the dog kept running.
I looked up, and there was the dog, and there was the man
behind the dog, and there was the leash dragging.
I got chills, is what I did, and I went inside the Burger
Hut and I asked for a Coke, and I took my little bottle of vodka I keep inside
my purse, and I poured most of it in, and I drank it down.
A few days later, I tried to conjure up a vision. I sat like they do on the yoga DVDs I have
but don’t use because I find myself fast forwarding through them which isn’t
Zen at all , but it is me, and I made O’s with my thumbs and forefingers and I
squinted like crazy.
Nada.
And then something weird happened. I had a clear memory of being a baby,
standing in my crib. I had on a pink
dress with smocking and little roses around the neck, and my mama was coming
for me, and she’s saying, “CeCe, come on bunny rabbit, there’s nothing to cry about.” I wail then, really turning up the volume, and there was a man with her who was
not my daddy, was absolutely not my daddy, and he had his hand on the small of
her back.
I opened my eyes, and the vision faded. I tried to remember more, but who can
remember anything before they’re two?
But I knew it was real, the way you know you hate broccoli without ever
trying it.
You know what I did?
I went to the freezer, where I keep my good vodka, and I poured a little
in a jelly glass, and I felt betrayed.
And I’ll tell you this. If Mama was still alive, I’d be over at her
house in a flash, and we’d be having a little talk. But she’s at the cemetery, where I haven’t
been since Decoration Day, and I don’t think she’s talking.
It hasn’t stopped there.
I had a date last week, and right before Stone, that’s his real name,
said to me, “My ex-wife cheated on me and now I have a hard time
trusting women,” I shut my eyes a second too long and I saw Stone and he was in
a motel room, and there was a woman there, and it was not his wife. His wife was calling him, his phone vibrating away, and he turned the phone over
and took the fornicator in his arms.
I got up from the table at Frank’s Pizza and More, and I
looked him in the eye, and I said one word. “Liar.” And then I walked away, and I reached in my
coat pocket where I keep the tiniest little bottle of vodka you’ve ever seen,
and I took a drink, a little ladylike drink, and I started walking toward home.
I’ve thought about seeing a doctor, but I don’t know what I’d
say. I sound crazy, is what I do, but I’m
not crazy. I’ve considered talking to a
fortune teller or a mystic or whatever, but when I do my Baptist upbringing
drops down in front of my like a banner unfurled and it reads, Do Not Consort
With Powers Of The Unknown, which is not part of my vision. I’ve been seeing that since I was a primary
in Sunday School.
My best plan is to keep my eyes open as much as is humanly
possible. Beyond that, I just don’t
know. But I will tell you this. I feel caught between and betwixt. My inner eye, as I’ve come to call it, saved
my life on Snake River. But it also
showed my Mama to be something less than I thought she was. And now it looks like I’ll be able to spot men
lying before they ever utter sound, which I know is bound to cut down on the
dating pool, at least from my past experience with men and their secrets.
So, if you have any advice for me, I’d love to hear it. I’d love to talk to someone else who sees
things before they happen. I’ll be
waiting to hear back. If you can see me
out there with your own inner eye, I can tell you this. That is me shaking just a little bitty
bit. And yes, that is me going in the
liquor store for another bottle of Grey Goose.
I hope that you don’t judge me on these two bits of information. I used to be a much different girl.
Oh Marla, I so love this. ”
the way you know you hate broccoli without ever
trying it.” love love love.I could read your voice all day and all night. I imagine you lying down with a friend on a picnic blanket telling stories in that slow drawling voice.
So very very very special, never stop.
Grey Goose… at least she’s going for the good stuff. =) Loved this! Loved the description of the road in the beginning. You have some fabulous lines in this. Great character! That bit about the Baptist upbringing cracked me up. Good stuff!
Marla, this sounds like a classic unreliable narrator. I love the analogy of the road curving like the guitar.
Great use of flashback too.
Katie
“I used to be a much different girl.” And there’s the universal in the quirky because didn’t we all! Marvelous! You have a gift that is stunning Marla, just amazing. Truly you write some of the best pieces I’ve ever read. As a rule I prefer classic to contemporary writing, unless it’s a contemporary writer with a classic style. But I like how your pieces are edgy and boldly descriptive with a touch of innocence and simplicity. Your voice is comfortable and conversational and easy all while making some of the most deliciously shocking or profound statements. Have you written a novel? Because I’ll buy it if you have! And if you haven’t you should!
I love those little snips on the vodka… !
I once wrote a very freeing piece about swan parents taking a trip to the sea in France. It does spice things up. I find it invigorating to write from the perspective of natural elements sometimes too. thanks for sharing this!
Ooh! That sounds like fun! I’ve never tried writing from an inanimate object’s perspective or even anything other than human. That might be a future post. Thanks for the idea, Marla.
I once tried to write from the perspective of a horse… it was a lot harder then I thought it would be. I’ll have to try it again.
ooh I like this idea! Swan parents, how fun!
The sand is hard packed—strong… strong
enough to support a car, an elephant even although Old Tom’s never actually
seen an elephant on the beach so that is only a theory. But he’s definitely seen an elephant worth of
people. He’s seen that plenty of times. He sees that now.
All around him noses run—city
noses, not accustomed to the ocean’s salty spray. His nose never runs, not any more. Old Tom’s nose hasn’t run in 84 years, not
since he beat pneumonia when he was five. But the beach is littered with runny noses
now, whole families of them—sniffing… picking when they don’t think anyone’s
watching, rubbing snot on the sleeves of their jackets. Everyone wears a jacket. This is Washington and it’s hardly ever warm
enough for swimming suits. But the cold
never stops them from coming. The rain
does, but not the cold. They come… elephant
worth after elephant worth to sit on their chairs, to spread out their towels
as if they owned the place.
But this here, is Old Tom’s
beach. The locals know it. Paul at the station knows it, but Paul told
Old Tom he needed to stop kick people off his beach since Old Tom doesn’t own
it in any official way… don’t got the proper paperwork. Old Tom never had much of a liking for
paperwork. It don’t last unless it’s
sealed in a bottle and Old Toms only seen that twice in his life. But paper or no paper, this is his
beach. It’s his from the refrigerator
sized slab of mettle that washed up a few years back to the big grey rock—the
one that looks like a woman bent over with her hair falling in front of her
face, the one that looks like Sarah. That
rock is the spitting image of his Sarah if she were grey and full of sand and
pebbles. The locals know. They respect his boundaries, but these
people, the elephant worth that are here right now, they don’t know nothin’
about nothin’.
They come to fly their kites. The kites don’t bother him, as long as they
stay in the air. Old Tom doesn’t feel
right claiming the air, the air belongs to God.
But those kites never stay in the air and there is always a pair of feet
planted in the sand holding onto the other end of the string.
You don’t see Old Tom pulling up
with coolers and kites, with bucket and sand toys although he’s collected
plenty of each over the years. The only
thing Old Tom brings to the beach is empty pockets, fifteen of them to be
exact. Four on the outside of his
jacket, two on the inside, six on his pants, and three tiny ones that line the
brim of his hat. His favorite pockets
are the great big ones with the Velcro closures on his hips—gunslinger
pockets. Only he isn’t slinging
guns. Nope. He’s slinging the losts and the founds—the
gifts of the sea. And from that rock
that looks like Sarah to that great big hunk of mettle, anything the ocean
burbs up is his.
Old Tom eyes the beach
suspiciously. There are a lot of kids
today and Old Tom doesn’t trust a single one of them. Not the boys with pockets of their own or the
girls with their buckets and their tiny pink shovels. Old Tom keeps an eye on them, making sure no
one takes what’s his—they can have the shells, he’s got no use for shells, but
the rest is his. Old Tom will sit here
all day if he has to, watching and waiting, waiting and watching.
I love how territorial Old Tom is because I can envision it. I’m amused that he’ll claim the beach but not the air because that’s God’s. Also, I had a roommate in undergrad who swore she cannot get strep
throat. Your comment about old Tom’s nose made me think of that.
Katie
Really great descriptive righting. Old Tom seems to come alive.
Jennifer felt the rush
of adrenaline as she drew closer to the store. Fluffy pom-poms swung furiously as
her old VW Beetle chugged and coughed its way down the main street. Not that you’d
know it was the main street if you were a visitor. Five pubs, a sports club, an
art gallery, a library and a post office. Yes, that was enough to qualify as a
main street in this small town. Brown dust stretched for miles every which way
you looked, the odd house placed incongruously amongst the dryness, and the
pubs an oasis. Twelve years of drought had squeezed every bit of life in a once
productive town and only the most loyal lingered on.
Jennifer pulled her
asthmatic car into the empty parking lot, patted down her frizzy red hair and
calmed her nerves. The smell of old books; sweet aging lignin and fading ink
gave Jennifer a high. She felt like a prisoner set free for a day, released
from the cracked earth and relentless sun beating down as she and Jim worked
that cursed earth until their fingers bled. As she looked in the mirror she frowned
at the dry skin and large brown freckles covering her face. The manual work and
baking sun had taken their toll but for a few precious hours she could forget
about her woes and bury herself in other people’s lives. Jennifer stepped out
of her car and made her way to the library. As she entered the old building she
felt an explosion of joy and a lightness of spirit. For a few precious hours
she could forget.
Oooh I like! Want to read more. “Asthmatic car” is great.
Great start! Loved the bury herself in other people’s lives line. Great stuff
I love the personification of the car, Ann-Elise
(I am TOTALLY new here….so I might have botched the prompt, but read anyway 🙂 )
“Daaaaana!”
I sat upright in my berth, narrowing avoiding hitting my head on the shelf above, and leaned back to silence the alarm clock that was built into the wall over my head. It was programmed with my mother’s voice, screeching, to shock me awake in the morning. As alarms went, it was very effective.
I swung around, my feet hitting the floor. As I straighted, the floor began to warm, sensing my presence. The closet opened immediately and my outfit for the day–olive green pants, a gray sweater, and my lace-up, fleece-lined boots–popped out on the tray table. Everything was neatly pressed and folded, the shoelaces undone so I could just pull them on.
“Breakfast is served.” The mechanical voice of Lilo, the Automaton Maid, came through the intercom. The small grate beneath the speaker opened to reveal a chocolate croissant and cafe au lait–my favorite breakfast, and fitting, since I had a French exam in two hours.
“DANA!” This time, it was my mom’s real voice shouting through the steel door.
“I’m COMING!” I said, my mouth full of pastry. I tugged on my clothes and tied my boots quickly, before pressing my hand to the heat-detecting pad that would open the door for me.
My door open, I picked up my navy blue backpack which was waiting in the hallway, and sprinted down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. Under the low lights, my father was drinking his coffee and my mother was trying to program the new stove for that night’s dinner. She wanted Beef Stew, but apparently Lilo wasn’t cooperating.
“Do. What. I. TELL. You…” mom grunted.
“Moom, it’s not HARD,” my brother, Byron, said. He was eating some sort of mush. Maybe grits? He had read some books about the Civil War a few years ago and became enamored with Southern Cooking. “It’s not Lilo’s fault that Stove isn’t working.”
“What good is having–”
“Anne.” My father’s voice came soothingly over the top of his reading tablet. “It’s nothing. Call the Service Center when they open. Meanwhile, we can always use one of the presets.”
“Pizza!” Byron said. ” Pizza! Pizza!”
I rolled my eyes as I sat at my stool and powered up my tablet. GOOD MORNING, DANA! flashed across the screen. The morning’s newspaper, (ironically) named The Tablet, opened. Before I could read it, an evelope icon flew across the screen and gracefully opened before me. It was an Emessage from Rachel, my best friend.
HOW HARD DID YOU STUDY?
I smirked back. Rachel never did well in French, no matter how many hours she spent on it. NOT HARD, I said, mostly to goad her. I wouldn’t tell her I’d been up until Lights Out at 2300. To increase productivity, everyone was to be in bed, lights out, by 2300, unless you had special clearance or worked night shift at the hospital or something. Lights Up, the morning wake-up, was variable, depending on how old you were and what you did. For me and Bryon, it was 0630. For my parents, it was 0500. Dad had to report for duty at the Naval Base by 0900 and mom had to be at the Church Office by 1000, after the first Mass, so she could work in her job as secretary. She used to be a stay at home mom, but since Lilo and her ilk came into the house, she didn’t have to. She did miss actually cooking, though. On the shelves inside the chrome kitchen, she kept a few dated cookbooks: Julia Child, Mario Batali, and one completely in Italian.
“Gotta go,” Byron said to me as our tablets squawked at us. “0730.” School began at 0750, and it took us 10 minutes by the HoverBus to get there.
“Bye, guys!” Mom gave us quick pecks on the cheek as we scooped up our backpacks. The main entryway opened as we approached, and we stepped out onto our metal porch to wait for the bus.
I loved living on small islands, like we did. I knew it hadn’t always been this way: at one point, our country had been solid land, but now the land was far away from us, and we mostly lived on small patches of it. Things like the city centers and capitals were on the biggest pieces. Our houses were what Dad called “submarines”–except they were above ground. They were very small and could be put underwater, if they had to be. I was fourteen and that hadn’t happened in my lifetime. Dad said it was easier to be prepared for anything. And since he worked for the Navy, which was one of the most important jobs anyone could have, we trusted him.
I’d seen pictures of Mom and Dad’s big house right after they’d got married, but I didn’t understand WHY they were so big. Now, everything was tiny and electronic. My tablet was was my communication device, locator, school books, test materials and everything else I needed. In the high school I attended, some teachers still used paper books, but that was because not all the books had become ebooks yet. So that’s what I kept in my backpack.
“Dana!” Juliette, from next door, took down her puffy downy hood and smiled at me. It was snowing, and I could see that most of the water had an icy film on top. “Ready for French?” We were in almost all the same classes, and I knew Juliette was ready; her mother was French, for pete’s sake.
Welcome, Em! I’m so glad you jumped right in. What a cool futuristic society. I could totally visualize it, and I really want a floor to warm my feet. Can we get that installed at my house? Thanks.
Katie
You know those exist now, right? “Radiant Floor Heating”. It’s pretty cool stuff.
Unfortunately they don’t exist in my budget…
Does it REALLY?! Oh my gosh I want it. Now.
Thanks Katie!
Nice! The whole bit is well worked. You can really keep developing this.
Thanks! I was thinking about how I would take it from here, and I had no idea for any sort of earth shattering plot developments, but it does merit some further work on my end, I think.
maybe think about what could go wrong…
My description some fellow Americans I observed in Paris.
I purchased a baguette filled with
tomato, cheese and ham from a street vendor in the Tuileries Gardens and found a bench to eat my
lunch. While waiting, I watched the
tourists and today I found a couple that
were especially fascinating.
“Can you make it
hot?” The man was shouting. He wore white tube socks up to his knees and
had a floral polyester shirt that was louder than his obnoxiously nasal voice.
The street vender shook
his head no.
“We want the sandwich
but it has to be warm.” The woman was
now shouting too. She had a purse strapped
around her waist and wore a matching floral shirt. They were both in running shoes. Unfortunately, the couple thought that if
they spoke loud enough, the street vendor would then be able to understand
English and serve them a hot sandwich.
The vendor continued to
shake his head no.
“Honey, I don’t think
he understands.” The woman with unnaturally large hair said to the
man.
“Hot!” The man pointed to the grill used for crepes
and continued to shout in an ever increasing volume. “We want it hot!”
The street vendor had reached
his breaking point. With a sour
expression, he snatched up a baguette, slapped it into the man’s hand and took
the bill he had been offering with the other.
“Well, I never!” The tourist looked shocked and angry. He looked at his wife. “You know this is the reason the French have
such a bad reputation!” He went on to
describe the vendors rudeness with some rather coarse words that the Frenchman
clearly understood.
Ugh. This is so stereotypical American tourist. I’m ashamed of my country and my people. Excusez-nous?
Congratulations Katie! Nice first article. I like the point that the quirkiness of a character is what makes them universal or relatable.
In my work in progress it turns out that two of my supporting characters are actually my favorite. One is a larger than life, wise, southern, matriarch. The other is opposite. A comical, in some ways tragic, but endearing character. Elderly, absent minded, frowsy, with ridiculous bobbing curls and a good heart. I thought I would share one of my favorite scenes of hers from my book. She has come over to the main characters house to help the young, expectant mommy.
****
The door bell rang one
dreary, gray morning; a Saturday. Fat drops had been bursting on the
window sill since daybreak. I reached the front door just in time for
the bell to ring again, insistently. Opening the door my eyes met
Mrs. Mallory’s. My heart sank. Apparently the brief encounter with
her in the supermarket a few weeks ago was to be the first of many.
For an indiscernible reason she had taken it upon herself to see
that the pastor’s little wife was properly cared for in her time of
need. I took my eyes off of her determined ones and looked down at
the parcel in her hand. Oh dear, this couldn’t end well. I opened the
door slightly wider and greeted her, “Mrs. Malory, what a
surprise.” She cut me off and pushed in, umbrella over her arm
dripping on the hardwood floor of the entry way. I breathed a prayer,
I’m not sure at all sincerely, “God give me patience.”
She bustled down the
hallway to the kitchen as I followed helplessly behind. Plunk, down
went the bundle on the white kitchen table top. She began unwrapping.
Lemons, a bottle of oil, basil leaves. I could only imagine. “Now
Virginia,” she began, “you’re starting to get bigger.” Oh joy.
She put out her hand, aimed for my growing belly. At just over five
months there was no hiding it from her, if I could have sucked it in
I would have. Pat, pat, pat. “It’s time to do what we can about
stretch marks, don’t you think.”
“Mrs. Malory, I don’t
have stretch marks ye…”
She cut me off, “Oh but
you will,” she beamed happily. “I need a bowl,” she looked
around my kitchen like a dog on a scent. “And a knife, a whisk, and
a…”
This time I cut her off.
“Whatever for?”
“Well to make the remedy,
for stretchmarks.”
Oh dear. How do you
politely refuse a determined woman who has come uninvited into your
home to smear a homemade concoction all over your belly! I was just
about to the point of loosing control when a knock sounded at the
kitchen door. Sweet relief flooded me as I remembered Cole was here
to pick me up for a visit to Mrs. Dalton’s, and then a little girl
time. I rushed to the back door and flung it open. Cole smiled a
greeting. and then upon surveying the kitchen and finding Mrs. Malory
with the knife and lemon in hand, smothered a grin. She looked back
at me and raised her eyebrows. I pulled her into the kitchen.
“Oh Mrs. Mallory, Cole
has come to pick me up for a previous engagement we have. I’m so
sorry but I really need to get going.” I start to gather up the
herbs and oil to put back in her bag.
She stops me, “No, you
keep all of this, it’s a whole lemon, four tablespoons of oil, a
fourth of a cup of chopped basil all mixed together, you rub it
wherever you need it.” She eyes my belly. I thank her and usher her
to the door. I’m not too sure that she wouldn’t have rather done the
job herself. Oh dear. As the door closes on her, I turn and see Cole
watching, fighting back a smile, her eyes dancing in amusement.
I run and fling my arms
around her, “Thank you for saving me!” I screech. She bursts out
laughing. I can’t help but join her and soon we’re wiping tears from
our cheeks from the side splitting laughter. “Stop,” I huff, “I
can’t breathe. “Oh, I needed a good laugh.”
“You know I think she was
going to lift up your shirt and rub that cream on you herself,”
Cole chuckles. “Why does she act like that, doesn’t she realize
she’s making a pest of herself?”
I shrug. “All I know is
I’m glad you showed up when you did!”
sweet, Beck
Thanks, Beck! One of my support characters is my favorite too. Sometimes I have a hard time writing scenes without him. I love the fat drops of rain in the opening line. Great job with the quirkiness.
Katie
she’s got a lot of promise…
A bit longer than 15 minutes. Sorry about that.
“FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!” It had a semblance of language, but simply echoed off of the concrete walls and built to needless incoherence. The tone in which it was voiced was curse enough, frustration and anger layered together sweetly with the syllables. With a clatter and thud, something heavy hit the floor and punctuated the curse, frustration evident as the chalk dust vibrated off of the bar. Ernesto was already walking away from the scene, his gait forced to awkwardness because of the wooden platforms of his shoes.
Breathing deeply, he calmed himself. His eyes closed, he lifted his chin towards the exposed laminate beams of the ceiling, imagining much but seeing nothing. In here, in the darkness of his own head, he could hear and focus on his breath. His breath was all, and it crowded out the creeping doubtful mutters, the persistent grumbles of failure. His breath was all. It was all that mattered and he allowed nothing else to break through.
Dimly, he noticed music playing. It was near cacophony, the small speakers underpowered for the size of the gym and turned up far too loud to really be good for anyone. It didn’t matter. He turned back towards the bar. His eyes opened.
Considering it, he addressed it as one addresses an old friend, a lover, and a bitter enemy. It was dark, tarnished from a once bright metallic shine, but made dark by years and oxygen and sweat and blood. Small knurls criss-crossed and wrapped the bar, the patterns between the smooth sections and knurled well known to him. Stepping to the bar, he set his feet, stomping them firmly on the floor.
He filled his chest with a deep breath and set his back. Imagining himself as a fixed puppet, only allowed to move at specific joints, he began to move. First his hips went back, pushing his rear into a seated position. His hands, hanging comfortably at his sides, touched the bar as his knees began to bend. He grasped the bar, working his hands into the knurls. He worked himself into the set and ready position.
And waited.
As his breath left him he closed off his airways, forcing the column of escaping air to compress. His muscles tensed and his core – his back, stomach, and chest, all convulsed and locked down. His knees began to straighten and then it happened. With the merest flick of his hips, he was ready and what had been stillness was now an explosion of fury, strength, and will. His hips thrust forward, pulling the bar off of the ground in a mere instant. The bar began to climb, not from a pulling in his arms, but from the force of the movement in his hips. His body continued to uncoil, his hips, chest and back heaving, his body moving desperately downward.
As his body moved down, the bar continued its ascent. His arms, providing no resistance, let the bar roll up them, his hands still firmly attached. Below the bar, when he could go no further, his arms were locked out above his head. He pushed hard, not wanting to let the weight of the bar press him into the ground. His abdomen and back quivering, he struggled with the weight of the bar and the plates, struggled to keep it balanced. And he tried to stand. Forcing every ounce of his strength, his will, and his mettle into his body, he pushed up on the weight which was so readily willing to crush him beneath it. His face was a rictus of determination and exertion. With a final push he wrenched the bar higher, higher until his knees locked out. He had done it. A strict clean of two hundred and fifty pounds.
A smile on his face, he dropped the bar and walked away as it fell.
I love the details and visualization all the way through. Well done, Hal.
I liked this post. It was very helpful to me being a new writer. I like the idea of not having typical characters. I think it will stretch my imagination and make my stories more exciting.
Thank for sharing this idea.
Bonnie
Thanks, Bonnie. Happy stretching and writing
This is a day late, but I wrote this in my school’s library before 1st period.
“Para!” I cried out to the jeepney. A cloud of dust came from under the wheels as it slowed. Its colored designs, some graffiti-like, welcomed me.
I got on, paid the fare, and sat down. A young mother my age with a baby in her lap sat across from me.
I willed the jeepney to go faster as it cruised on the edge of town, where the ledge overlooked farmland. The sun shone fiercely. We passed a billboard filled with Tagalish, advertising an American TV show.
The mother furrowed her brow. “Are you all right?”
I knew I was in a less than composed state. My leg shook nervously and I constantly wiped the sweat off my forehead. I was on my edge. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
“Where are you going?”
“To my lola.” I grimaced. “She called me to come over but the connection dropped. I hope she didn’t break her phone again.”
“I hope she’s all right.”
I nodded, looking at the street. Although the last hurricane flooded the entire town, everybody made repairs. Scrap metal, including the front of a Coca-Cola machine, patched some part of the stone walls.
A few kids ran down the street, speaking more Enlgish than Tagalog. Of course, the occasional beggar occupied a corner. I recognized one, who had a stained cloth covering his eyes.
As soon as the jeepney reached my lola’s neighborhood, I rapped my knuckles against the roof. The driver stopped and I jumped out, thanking him before running off.
The mother with the child got off too. She shrugged. “What’s your lola’s name? I might know her.” Her child squirmed in her arms.
I love this. I’m so glad you shared, even if it was late. I guess we’ll let it slide this time. 🙂
You know you’ve really become one of the locals, when you
wake up to gray skies and rain and instead of groaning and burying your head
under your pillow, you smile and cheer the rain. I guess that’s the way it is when your
country borders on the desert and the rainy season isn’t all that rainy. Summer carries on with nary a glance at the
calendar, sometimes well into December.
But once the first rain comes, no matter the date or the extent of the
rain—five minutes or an unlikely hour—summer clothes get packed away and
turtlenecks and sweaters and boots are set out to take their place. Even if the weather keeps on in the 70s and
80s.
Except for Shimrit.
Shimrit does her own thing.
Summer or winter, rain or shine, Shimrit lives as if in an eternal
summer. Whatever the weather, there she
is in short sleeves and sandals, with at most a scarf around her neck. Well, she did make a concession to the
Jerusalem snow once.
Last winter when the
road to Jerusalem was closed because of the heavy snows, it was Shimrit who
heard about the special “snow” train scheduled to take people up from
the snow-free coastal plain to see the snow in Jerusalem.
“Let’s skip school today and catch the train to
Jerusalem,” she said.
“You have got to be kidding. My mother will kill me if she finds
out.”
“No she won’t.
Really, how old do you want to be before you see your first snow? Want to wait until you’re an old ‘savta’ and
can’t enjoy it? ”
“Well…”
“Come on Shulie, you can even tell your mom about
it. Tell her it’s educational. And it isn’t every year that Jerusalem gets
so much snow.”
Of course, I let her talk me into it. When I ran up to the train station, the
station was packed with people of all ages.
I nearly missed Shimrit, decked out as she was in a sweater and
shoes. When we got onto the train, it
was already pretty full with people from Tel Aviv and the outlying areas. Even the train ride was an adventure! People rarely travel to Jerusalem by train. Why bother? It’s a 50-minute bus ride from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, with buses leaving every few minutes. The train crawls up the mountain 2 or 3 times a day, on tracks that wind around the Judean hills and stretch the trip out to over an hour and a half.
Trust Shimrit: Even
in a crowded train, she was able to find us window seats. All around us, mothers and young children all
wrapped up for the snow, grandparents with children all smiling from ear to ear
and chattering excitedly.
It was, of course, Shimrit who let out the first shriek when
she saw actual piles of snow outside the window. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I thought I
would bury myself when she began singing ‘Sheleg al Iri’ and every other damn
song she could think of with the word snow in it. I tried to look in the other direction, so
that no one would realize we were together, but before I knew it, the whole carload
of passengers was singing along. But
that’s Shimrit for you. By the time we
pulled up to the special snow stop by the Biblical Zoo right before the train
station, everyone knew Shimrit by name.
I love this. What unique experience seeing snow for the first time at an age when you are able to remember it. Thanks for sharing!
As a native New Yorker, I grew up with snow, but even after so many years here, I still find myself slightly amused by the whole to do around it in Israel. Although Jerusalem is particularly beautiful when covered in snow, (and they really do run special trains to view it)…
This can be a great idea, but I see a danger in it; people might feel you`re trying too hard. Also, it becomes harder to identify to a character when they’re too weird. I think this would work great in children or young teenager books but should be used carefully in YA and adult novels.
Thank you for the excellent blog. Each person is unique in their own way. Developing that uniqueness is the challenge in writing about our characters. Even the invisible people are unique in their invisibility. The trick is making their invisibility take on character. Lorena McCourtney does that well in her Ivy Malone series. I am going to take your advice and go back and make my normal Kansas family characters pop a little more. Thanks again.