April 7th, 2013

Fiction, Editing, and Polyvore

When I was teaching short-story writing to high-school students, the first exercises I asked them to do involved dreaming up a character. One assignment was to write a description of this character’s home (I also gave them the option of drawing the place, but few took me up on it). This assignment was amazingly successful–students wrote in great detail, especially girls. Some took it as a basically a shopping fantasty, stocking the fictional rooms with brand-name bling, but almost everyone was able to flesh out a setting to an extent that you could see it in your mind. I was impressed at how carefully they worked their way around a space, describing each piece of furniture in turn.

The reason I gave this assignment is it’s a good, concrete way to start developing character–showing the objects a character would acquire and keep close is a good way to start to edge in on who he or she is. If you were to realize that the only two items of furniture I contributed to the living room I share with my husband are an easy chair from my childhood bedroom and an end table my father got with green stamps in the sixties (like a prototypical Air Miles), you would know a few things about me: cheap, partial to nostalgia.

The problem was, I suppose, the leap I expected the students to be making when they did the exercises–I wanted them to use these bits of character development to guide the story they would write: a person who would dress like this, who would own furniture like this, would *be* like this and in certain circumstances… When it came time to put together a first draft of their stories, I said they could “draw on” any of the exercises they’d previously done. Mainly, this translated into a long, pointlessly detailed description of a room in every story.

I tried to explain that the room descriptions were for the *them*, the writers–a way to gain more insight into their characters. Once they knew enough, they could show the characters in tiny details a reader could absorb easily, and not need these towering stacks of details. If you know a character well enough, you barely have to describe him/her at all–you know exactly how to nail it down.

My students were pissed–the concept of writing for themselves, writing to make later writing better, writing that they got no marks for, all foreign to them. I could not convince most of them to remove these descriptions. Even when I suggested they didn’t need to replace it with anything, even when I said other character work elsewhere in the piece was strong enough to carry it, even with no word-count minimum, and my pointed comments that the description was making the story awkward and dull, they refused to take work they had done off the page.

Which is totally natural when you are 15 and never wanted to take a creative writing class in the first place. But it is a helpful reminder for those of us who are allegedly adults and writing for the love it, that just because I wrote it doesn’t mean it’s worthwhile, and just because it’s worthwhile doesn’t mean it needs to go *in* the story. I do a lot of writing *towards* a story–exploring backstory, motivations, minor characters–that seems to me as I write to in fact be part of the story itself. It will illuminate things for the reader, I tell myself, or else that this is part of the narrator’s thought process and should naturally be included. Then when I read it through, I realize I was just doing some kind of imaginative research in order to get to the point where i knew the characters well enough to write the scene and…chop, chop, chop.

It is too easy to leave that stuff in, because even unnecessary writing is hard and it hurts to kill something that took a long time to create. But it’s self-indulgent to do otherwise–ok for 15-year-olds, but not anyone who actually wants to be taken seriously.

I’m on this topic because I recently started researching clothing styles and brands. Normally, the characters I write about dress like people I know, so if clothing comes up I know how to describe it, and even if it doesn’t come up, I know how characters would react to, say, sitting on the floor, or spilled wine–I know what they’re wearing and how they feel about what they’re wearing. But I’m starting on a character whose clothes are a lot nicer than anyone’s I know, and they are important to her–important enough I can’t get away with a vague impression of silhouettes and shades. The Mighty J recommended a wonderful and addictive site called Polyvore. It’s basically paper dolls with current designer clothes, and it’s a wonderful way to make outfits for characters if you’re not too fashion-savvy and the characters are. It’s also SO fun playing matchup with unrelated clothes, and I’m saying this as a person who is currently wearing and orange skirt, orange tights, and one of her father’s dress shirts from the 60s.

Of course i spent a tonne of time playing around and I got to the point where I was able to imagine this woman’s clothes, her budget, her body issues, her brand awareness. I also had a couple nice outfits lined up and I knew where in the story she’d wear them. It is now *very* tempting to start putting brand names in the story, long descriptions of the exact sheen of shoe leather, the fit of a skirt. I need, largely, to resist this temptation. The character owns the clothes; she’s used to them, and not dazzled by how pretty they are because she has lots of pretty clothes. If I go all schoolgirl and start kvelling in detail about everything in her closet is, it undermines the character’s own take on things, which is much more arch and unimpressed. It will also take up a lot of space when the story isn’t *about* clothes; they’re really just a character detail that it was important to imagine correctly in order to imagine the whole woman correctly.

So, according to my 15-year-old students and sometimes my own interior whiny voice, I basically wasted several hours creating material–outfits–that can’t go in the story. Which is ridiculous–I couldn’t write about the character this well any other way. I’m guessing there are people in the world who are more efficient and don’t need to do this sort of research, and good for them, but I am learning to be accepting of my somewhat circuitous process. From talking to other writers, this is not so unusual, though they may be in the library, at an archive, or at a museum–it’s just hard to use most research most of the time. But it’s still really worth doing, I’d say (also, Polyvore=the funnest!)

January 3rd, 2011

Reverb 30

This month, gifts and gift-giving can seem inescapable. What’s the most memorable gift, tangible or emotional, you received this year?

I got a little behind with reverb, but I’m still chugging along. I actually glanced at this prompt a couple days ago, but wanted to wait to be back at my own computer so I could upload a photo of my funnest holiday gift. Now, looking at the prompt again, I realize that they probably really meant an emotional gift or at least a “tangible” gift with a heavily emotional meaning. And not a brightly coloured jacket with a peaked hood from The Fairies’ Pajamas. If I stretch it, perhaps this gift proves how very well my brother knows me, as he’s the one who gave it to me, and he knew very well I would love it. But mainly, I just think it’s neat:

September 24th, 2009

Writer Chic

Now wearing: very much too-big cotton stretch pants, usually worn as pajamas but today promoted to daywear due to laundry apathy, rolled at the waist to flood levels so that they will stay up, revealing bleach-white men’s gym socks, originally my father’s, given to me in a time of sock-shopping apathy; gangsta girlfriend white-and-baby-blue Puma sneakers; extremely snug/sexy (depending on self-esteem moment) navy TNQ t-shirt worn long over hips and bulge of rolled-up pants waistband; heavy burgundy-framed glasses; ponytail (ponytail = jail for hair that cannot adhere to the social compact); black cardigan with multiple armpit holes.

Sometimes (not often) I want to take the “eccentric” option that being a writer affords me.

Just broke up
RR

March 10th, 2009

On We Struggle

By 7:15 today, I had showered, brewed tea, broken a ceiling lamp (I think it really broke itself; normal on-turning shouldn’t result in it shorting out like that) and written two letters. By 8, I had read two short stories, gotten dressed, and decided that the skirt I’d chosen didn’t really go with my sweater. When I tried to take it off, I discovered that I’d done up the hook and eye wrong (again, I’m thinking not really my fault–who know you could go wrong with those?) and *couldn’t* get the skirt off. This was the point at which I considered going back to bed, but five extremely despondent minutes later, I was able to change skirts (I still don’t know what went wrong). Keep in mind that neither skirt was the right answer to most questions fashion could ask: the one I had on was made of sweat-wicking technical fabric and slightly too big (but not big enough to slide over my hips or shoulders while fastened, we learn), and the one I wanted to wear is extremely elderly with the pockets completely torn out, so that things placed in them reappear immediately on the floor.

By 8:30, I was dressed and out the door, downstairs filling out the repair-request for my broken ceiling lamp. When it was done, I went over to the super’s mail slot and inserted…the two letters I’d written! I looked down at my repair request, still in my hand, and was sad, but put that in too; why not? Then it seemed like a good time to spend a few minutes staring at the wall, thinking about my retirement villa on the moon. Will I be allowed to have pets, I wondered. A kitten seems like such a good companion for the elderly. But how do felines react to zero-gravity?

Finally my super arrived, and I told him my sad story, at which he nodded unhappily, because he does not understand English. He has never admitted this to me, and he appears to read and speak it fine, so I keep talking to him and he keeps nodding. Aural English is tough to master, I know. Finally he opened his door and I pointed to his mail basket. He pulled out my repair slip and stamped and addressed letters and I said, “Ah, those are mine,” and we both regarded them thoughtfully for a while. Then I very gingerly took them out of his hand and said, “Thank you! I’m so sorry!” He smiled a little, and then broke into a grin when I said, “Goodbye!”

I still think today could recover and be a good day, but it will take some focus. Think about how people are really pulling together over the proposed funding cuts for literary journals and other mags with smaller circulation. Think about weather in positive degrees. Think about kittens.

And if all else fails, there’s always poets.

Now everybody kiss
RR

November 9th, 2008

Sundayness

Well, it’s mid-afternoon and I haven’t gotten permanently dressed yet (you know, you put on your sweats to go to the gym/post office/grocery store, but that doesn’t really count as clothing, plus you have to start all over again once you shower) but at least my book got a lovely review in the Toronto Star. That makes me feel a little bit better about everything, including the fact that as soon as my hair dries from the shower, I have to go out in the rain.

I know that you don’t wanna hear it / especially from someone so young
RR

October 20th, 2008

I give up!

I love Hallowe’en more than I love most things, but this year I cannot come up with a costume. This is a sad and embarrassing failure; I wouldn’t blame you if you thought less of me, even stopped reading this blog. But if you are still reading, here are my excuses:

1) The party I am going to is TV-themed, and I haven’t had a working television in 4 years.
2) Prior to 2004, all my favourite shows were sitcoms, and all those characters look approximately like real people. How would you *know* I was dressed as Bailey Quarters, even if I straightened my hair?
3) I am insanely busy these days and will actually be away for most of this week. Even when I am not insanely busy, I am a poor seamstress and have had bad luck with hair dye. Whatever costume I wind up with cannot be complicated, blond, or bulky (the party is also very far away–I don’t want to spend an hour trying to keep my wings or antennae or whatever to myself).

Are these constraints not imposing? I am seriously thinking of covering my clothes with Styrofoam peanuts and going as no-signal snow… If you have a better idea (and almost any idea is better than that) please please share it. I will be forever in your debt. I’ll bring you candy!

After twelve / just as well
RR

September 14th, 2008

Today and Tomorrow

So, twenty-four hours from the launch of my book, and I’m starting to twitch a little. This is not unusual; ignore me. Just to reiterate, for those who just started reading this blog:

Time and Place: Monday, September 15, 2008 at 7:30pm (Doors at 7pm.)
Location: Gladstone Hotel, 1214 Queen Street West, SECOND FLOOR GALLERY (I always forget to walk up the stairs)

I’m hoping, by the time I make to that point tomorrow, I’ll have the confidence and the suavity to say something interesting and/or witty. As for the rest of today, in a minute I’m gonna write. Because really, today tomorrow and always, that’s what I do. Like this:

We go sit in the waiting room with all the dusty dying plastic carnations and the real rubber plant, so shiny it looks plastic. There’s a few people sitting in the chairs. Some people just look like us, jeans and sweaters and staring at the ceiling, but one woman has her hair in blue plastic curlers under gauzy pink scarf like my mother used to wear; one man is wearing slippers and a navy robe with gold trim. They seem to live there, so what are they waiting for? A man with a beard comes from the hall carrying a guitar case. He sits down by the window and takes out the guitar, which has an American flag painted on it. There’s coins in the shiny red fluff of the inside of the case.

The curler woman nods and taps her foot as he starts to play and sing, something sleepy and Spanish. He taps his foot, too. He isn’t wearing shoes, but his toenails are nicely cut and clean. This room is not the waiting room; it is the living room.
–From “This Is A Podcast” a story that isn’t, really, yet

See you tomorrow. Please smile encouragingly.

As cool as I am I thought you knew that already
RR