Writing. Again. Yeah, I know, it's the tune of my summer. But my summer is almost over, and I feel like I need a post of cap it all off--not that the process ever ends.
Mostly, I want to talk about the phone calls, skype dates, and house visits with Lisa (and Heidi).
I've written a fair amount about the way a writer speaks to another writer. There's more though. So much more.
As I've worked throughout the summer on this huge project, I've realized that up until this point I've just kind of been wingin' it and hoping it would come out alright. Yes, I had some people read parts of it, but none of them really helped me develop ideas, nor did they give me much feedback. This was fine at the time, because I wasn't ready to hear much about improvement. (If you have read any of "Morning Star" you should feel privileged because I have hold this story near and dear for a long time.)
When I was on the phone with Lisa earlier this week she started out by telling me how she cried while she read a certain scene--and it wasn't the death scene, like I expected, it was the proposal scene I mentioned in an earlier post. Something that had been thrown in kind of last minute before emailing it to her. Good tears. Tears because it moved her--the giving up of part of ones identity that goes along with giving one's life to another. In everything, there is a give and take--I pray there is more giving than taking.
Then, as we worked through the other parts of the chapters I sent her, we came to the conclusion that "There are a lot of characters in this story." It's true, there are. They're not all crucial--though some are becoming more important than I originally thought they would be. Sometimes a book with a lot of characters can be daunting--and at times it is--but there are many characters in my personal story, and in yours. So why should it be that my main character only has one friend? She has many friends, and they have families, and that is okay. I just need to work on giving them faces, so to speak.
I am looking through a kaleidoscope, and through it I view this mythology as it comes to life. As I turn and twist it I see new colors, learn new names, discover new hurts.
My mother is painting out front door red today. There is significance here that is going unnoticed--it is a significance in my own heart. She is painting over something that has been in want of paint for eight years now. I have been finessing a story that has been in want of completion for nearly eight years now. She paints with red, I paint with words. But the end result is the same--notice me. Know that I am what I am. "I am a door." and "I am a book." "I am a way into a home." and "I am a way into a story."
I told Mom I would paint the door green. And if I thought I could get away with it, it would be round. Because my journey as a writer began with a green door and a brass nob right in the middle. All I need is a wizard to knock on our red door, and I'll be set. But maybe I am the wizard of this story? Maybe I am knocking on the heart of the reader and I am saying, "Follow me, I have a story to tell you."
"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yell brass knob in the exact middle." [The Hobbit]
No comments:
Post a Comment