Entry #31: 7/22/23: What the Hell Happened Here?

Although I’m not a pessimist by nature, I do have to admit that this is what I find myself saying every morning when I look in the mirror. Out loud, if the truth be known, though no one can actually hear me except possibly my husband who is the next room, and he just says “what?” Which is pretty much his response to everything I say, so it doesn’t really count. The reason this statement has become a daily ritual is not because my reflection has become vastly altered in the previous eight hours (during which I was mostly sleeping), but in a more generalized sense, I never cease to be amazed that the aging woman in the mirror is actually me. 

My children, who are 52 and 49, both clearly have a 25 year-old inside of them frantically trying to escape their middle-aged bodies. Primarily this comes in the form of strenuous daily exercise routines (both), frantic work and intense social schedules (my daughter), and 50 mile hiking and camping trips with other like-minded age deniers (my son). Also, having watched me care for their 90 year-old grandmother before she died 10 years ago (and remembering it well), they seem to be practicing potentially caring for me, a process which alternates between solicitous behavior (which I confess is kind of nice), and, I suspect, what amounts to a fear of their mortality. What they don’t realize, of course is that when I’m 90, they’ll be 67 and 70, and having similar expectations of their own children.

But what they truly may not understand now is that there is 40 year-old woman inside of this 72 year-old body who desperately yearns to escape as well.  In other words, just because my knees hurt and I forget things, doesn’t mean I don’t still dance around my living room to the 60s music I have secretly stored on my iPhone. 

So now, you are asking what does this have to do with writing…since this, in fact, is a blog about writing. Quite a bit, actually. Because to be taken “seriously” as a writer, I’ve discovered that you have to be under 30, have a weird haircut, a troubled life, or be male. When you’re a 72 year-old woman, and your life is actually quite pleasant, and your hair (while not cut in the traditional senior citizen style) looks fairly normal, the average reader is not especially interested in what you have to say. What your granddaughter thinks you want to hear, for example, is that her friend said, “oh your grandmother writes novels? That is so cute!” 

What I’ve discovered about my own writing (now that I just published novel #10) is that my protagonists are suddenly quite a bit younger. My first two books had 60-something main characters (which is what I was at the time) with grown children they are frantically trying to understand and/or create a bond with (no comment). One was divorced with grown children who worshiped the discarded spouse (not commenting here either, but suffice it to say it wasn’t hard to write). The other was recently widowed with grown children who were also worshipful of the deceased husband, but none the less devoted to the remaining parent (a more hopeful, albeit perhaps imaginary scenario). 

Suddenly in novel #3, the protagonist becomes a snarfy 20-something, a pattern that repeats itself a number of times afterwards, including the most recent book. Psychologically speaking, what does this indicate? That I am trying to relive my youth? Appeal to a younger audience? Create the illusion that I am one of the above mentioned successful writers? Or possibly just admit that there is nothing too interesting about my current age and lifestyle that is worth writing about?

That final statement, by the way, is not true…in case anyone younger than 60 happens to read this blog. This is evidenced by the monthly Zoom chat I have with my high school classmates; a group that numbers less than 40 and are all women. I’m hesitant to reveal the content of some of these chats, but suffice it to say these are well-educated, well-read, well-travelled women in their early 70s, who did not find a discussion of a recent picture of their male counterparts (from the boys’ school across the street) beneath the intellectual nature of their discussions. 

Novel #4 (Taking Flight), by the way has a male protagonist. Oddly, it’s my favorite book I’ve written, and now that I think about it, I also like my hair the way it is.

What To Do When There's Nothing To Do

          When my brother, Mark and I were kids, we spent our summers in a cottage on a lake; a cottage my parents had actually built themselves from a pile of pre-fab components that fit together (mostly). It was a large A-frame construction, with a huge front porch and was perched on a forested hill overlooking our very own stretch of lakefront. Halfway down the path leading to the water was a stone fireplace where we cooked hotdogs and marshmallows and a picnic table where we devoured our efforts.

    We had a wooden dock that had to be slid into the water every spring and pieced together in order to moor our rowboat and sailboat. The canoe was flipped over on the shore nearby, its paddles tucked securely underneath, and anchored a short distance out in the water was a raft my father and grandfather built the first summer we lived there. My parents built the cottage the summer I was five and although we took many vacations and sightseeing trips other places in the years that followed, I pretty much spent every June, July, and August at the lake until I went away to college 12 years later. 

     You would think that this would be the most idyllic way to spend one's childhood, and for the most part, Mark and I would agree. Every day we would wake up to some new adventure that generally involved hiking through the woods, sailing, canoeing, fishing, and long afternoons of swimming and lazing around in the sun. But there were also days when it rained, or, in the pre-global warming era, times when there was a distinct chill in the air (since we were, after all, in the foothills of the Adirondacks). Not only that, but when we were teenagers and the need for social contact reached beyond the limits of our sibling companionship and childhood amusements, we'd often spend many restless hours trying to figure out what to do with ourselves all day. 

    I should point out that this was not only a computer-less/cell phone-less era, but also our cottage had neither a TV nor a phone that wasn't a party line, and was out of range of most popular radio stations. It was for this reason (or perhaps the sanity of my mother) that my father first devised the "What To Do When There’s Nothing To Do" list. 

      Although I don't remember precisely how the idea came about, I'm guessing it originated one especially rainy Saturday when both my parents were attempting to patiently endure the restlessness of their offspring. I do recall, though, that after several hours of listening to the dramatic sighs and unrestrained whines of two preteens, my father handed us each a sheet of paper with the heading "What To Do When There's Nothing To Do" printed across the top in red ink. Although I don't recall whether we ever consulted our completed lists for the remainder of the summer, at least it gave us something to do that afternoon (and, no doubt, gave my parents some peace and quiet).

     I've thought about that list quite a lot over the last few months, when the triple whammy of a pandemic, my recent retirement, and the no-one-reads-what-I-write-anyway-so-why-should-I write-it syndrome struck simultaneously. I even went as far as digging through a box of childhood mementos to see if I could unearth that old list (which, I should add, did give me something to do for an hour or so). 

     Failing this, I made an effort to recreate the list, with somewhat mixed results, considering the number of years that have passed in the interim, and the current irrelevance (or perhaps impossibility) of the activities that might have been on that list.

     Here, for example, are some of the original entries that came back to me: add to my paper dolls' wardrobe choices by cutting more outfits from the Montgomery Ward catalogue; practice blowing bubblegum bubbles until I’m as good as Mark; try to win 10 games of Solitaire in a row for the new family record; work on my goal of reading all the Louisa May Alcott books; practice doing the jitterbug for when my friends and I watch American Bandstand together in the fall; learn to play more Beatles songs on my guitar; and practice Hula Hooping on the front porch (or in the house if Mom says it’s okay). Then suddenly I remembered my final entry on the “What To Do When There’s Nothing To Do” list: Write a story.

     Huh! Write a story? Now there’s a thought.

More Real Characters

     Back to characterization...that nagging "make it or break it" part of most stories and novels, and at least for me as a reader (if not also a writer) the primary element that determines the success of said work. Back when I first started writing this blog, one of my early entries focused on this literary aspect, by referring to my grandmother's infamous evaluation of some of her various acquaintances as "real characters."
     I published my seventh book, Reunion, recently and am currently working on number eight, That Old Cape Cod. Both of these novels have unique characterization challenges, one that would fluster (her word not mine) even my grandmother.
     In the first one, I chose to write about a group of friends planning to attend a 50th high school reunion, which couldn't help but be based on my own experience, since it was one I just had. What better group to draw from, then, than my actual high school classmates? Most of the novel deals with the characters' memories, as well as the secrets they kept from each other. A parallel plot is the book one of the characters is writing, in which this experience becomes far more negatively exaggerated than the actual one (or does it?)
     Unfortunately, this raised the eternal dilemma: how to create flaws and frailties in characters modeled after people I love (because, of course, this is how one creates successful characters...at least according to the "how to" books). The villains were far easier...after all who doesn't have some leftover rage for the bad guys of our youth? Still, the question of potential insult (if not downright libel) definitely looms in those circumstances, thus restricting one's level of poetic license.
    The question is, how does one (as Hemingway so determinedly reminds us) "write about what you know," without crossing the line too far into what maybe not everyone you know wants everyone to know about them. I have concluded that no writer's characters are entirely fictional, despite the disclaimers, which even I have become guilty of including. But that doesn't mean you can't jumble up their personalities into composite beings (as I did in Reunion) or place older models in younger bodies, or make women you know into men and vice versa (a bit more of a challenge, but still possible).
     This method of characterization can, however, have some unexpected consequences. When my husband complained that in my first book (Scraps of Eternity) I immediately kill him off (sorry, spoiler alert), for example, my daughter countered with the observation, "well at least Mom didn't turn you into a gay male lawyer." On the other hand, the fictional family who endearingly populate the Seaside Restaurant in Home to Trout River, may one day be sought after by several readers who claim the book inspired them to travel there, and thus put the place on the map...okay, maybe in a few photo albums at best, but I can dream, right?
     The characters in my newest venture (still in its first draft), That Old Cape Cod, are a combination of old friends, lovers, and ghosts, and occasionally all of the above. Talk about challenging...imagine trying to create flaws for someone who is no longer living. I mean, what can they do about it at that point? And what possible message can come from the impossibility of change? This may take longer to write than I imagined.
    But what the heck? Heaven knows, I've got the time, what with the current constrictions of an epidemic to keep me home and typing away. On the other hand, there's nothing like a good quarantine to release one's inhibitions in regard to "fictional" character creation. On the one hand, it's made me more aware of whom I genuinely miss when I'm not allowed to see them, as well as who I really don't; and undoubtedly, there are many who have come to similar conclusions about me.
     Therefore, I rather expect there are other writers who have come to the same realization, even ones whose books are, shall we say, more widely read than mine, and perhaps this circumstance will inspire a whole new literary movement. I'm not talking about the inevitable flurry of apocalyptic novels (which I have to confess I might be looking forward to), but also (another result I happily anticipate) an abundance of fiction populated with more "real characters." My grandmother would be proud.
     
   

Here We Go Again...

     Time for the annual plunge into the fiction writing contest pool. It happens this way every year, but for some reason, I still fail to recognize the annual signs of potential disappointment. Here's how it happens: usually I have just finished a novel, or am in the final stages of editing one and now facing the daily boredom of reading, for the fourth or fifth time, something I was last excited about at least six months ago. Then it is February on Cape Cod...need I say more? Those idyllic scenes of fluffy white snow dusting the lighthouses and blowing gently across deserted beaches that you see on all the calendars are pretty much taken on a single afternoon when the one picturesque ocean snowstorm breezes through. The rest of the time the sky is this kind of steel gray and spits frozen rain, and the wind never stops blowing.
   But that's when they arrive: the cheery emails from a virtually unending stream of little known literary magazines and tiny publishing companies in Nebraska, offering you fame and recognition, as well as perhaps a $100 prize, and, more importantly, a subscription to said magazine. Occasionally, you are also given the "additional opportunity" for a "professional analysis" of your work, plus a "reduced fee" to attend their "renowned annual writing conference." This, too, is in Nebraska...where you'll share a rustic cabin "bonding" with three other "talented" attendees, and participate in "yoga and meditation groups, while watching the sun rise over distant mountain ranges." (Do they even have mountain ranges in Nebraska?)
     The reason you get the emails, of course, is not because somehow these literary experts have come across your obscure Amazon author page (after misspelling the name of a sports writer in the search engine), or picked up one of your novels on a recent trip to Orleans, MA, where it rained for four days and they ended up in the only bookstore kind enough to stock your work. Nope, they got your name and email from your previous futile attempts at recognition when you entered their contest last year...and the year before...and perhaps, the year before that.
    But my favorite sources for continuing to humiliate myself are not so much these ego-stroking communications (which basically, as my father used to refer to electronic birthday greetings, are "when you care enough to send the very least"), but publications and websites that I purposefully subscribed to. These insidious resources not only flood your brain with articles and links convincing you, the writer, that "you, too, can make a six figure income by just following a few simple tips," but also produce an annual list of how to further convince yourself that you can't.
     Nonetheless, we writers are a frighteningly optimistic bunch...either that, or we have definitively short memories...and I, like others, find myself reading through the lists of annual contests seeking and circling the perfect recipients to offer me the above mentioned fame and recognition.
      After being part of this potentially financially draining process for several years now, I now see myself as somewhat of an expert in the field. Here's what I've learned: (1) watch out for the fine print. One contest I entered seemed like an excellent choice, but it wasn't until after I sent my story about two sisters growing up in a Jewish neighborhood in New York (and paid the $20 entry fee) that I happened to notice the contest was based in Tennessee, and they were looking for stories and poems that reflected the "traditional values and lifestyle of Bible Belt culture."
     Next, I learned that (2) it is important to look at the contest website carefully and if possible, read the winning stories from the previous year's competition. I only learned this after sending off a story about gardening with my grandfather, and then noting that the most recent winner had written a sensitive portrayal of her love affair with a mass murderer. How I missed the illustration of the large ax dripping blood, I'm not sure.
    Finally (and please note I am only hitting the top three cautionary bits of advice): (3) just because you were one of the 120 semi-finalists in a contest where the promoters promised to make an Oscar winning movie out of the winning entry, doesn't mean you should send them three stories and a novel the very next year (at $50 a pop).
    I'm sure by now you think this cynical portrayal of the world of literary competitions means I have deleted all those email invitations, and tossed aside the list of potential entries culled from the pages of "professional" websites and inspirational publications. Unfortunately, having just sent my seventh novel, Reunion, to press, and sitting here looking out on steel gray skies in the midst of an extended "stay at home order," this is not the case. Yup, I think, as I sign into "Submittable" and open my PayPal account, here we go again.
    Maybe I should just sign up for the writing conference in Nebraska and be done with it.

Go Amuse Yourself Quietly

    My mother was not a typical 1950s woman...you know what I mean, the Barbara Billingsley (Beaver Cleaver's Mom) type who did God knows what all day long wearing a dress, heels, and pearls. Instead, my Mom spent her afternoons teaching piano lessons in our living room, and her evenings (and later mornings, after my brother and I were in school) teaching literature classes at the local college. She also spent a good portion of my childhood earning two advanced degrees and being more or less the entire secretarial staff for my grandmother's real estate and insurance business. (I should add that my grandmother was also not the typical 1950s woman).
    Thus this phrase ("go amuse yourself quietly") was frequently uttered in our home. And if the truth be known, my brother and I were pretty good at it...amusing ourselves quietly, I mean...unless you count the experiments we tried with the chemistry set he got for Christmas one year, or the bike horns my father gave us which sounded more or less like wounded geese as we raced our bikes up and down the street in front of the house.
    I don't mean to imply that my childhood was one long series of being chased out of the room so my mother could fulfill her professional goals...in fact, I often wonder how she was able to find the energy to also leave me with memories of vast amounts of quality time we spent as a family.
    But I also have to admit that somewhere in the early 1970s, I found myself also directing my own children to "go amuse themselves quietly," all the while having the distinct feeling I had heard this expression somewhere before. Being that it was the more permissive 70s, though, added to this directive was the promise that "if you play by yourself quietly for a little bit, then Mommy will play with you after."
    "Quietly," however was the operative term. Between my son's Star Wars battles and the unruly "students" in my daughter's doll-populated "school" (one I was quite convinced could be accredited by the state of Connecticut), this was not really the prevailing atmosphere that followed my decree. But mostly the concept worked fairly well, especially with the added invention of color TV.
     Because I had my children young, I spent a good portion of their early years in part time pursuit of my college degree and then continuing on to get my Master's. I also worked evenings as a newspaper reporter, and once the kids were in school, started my teaching career and became involved in local politics. Must be genetic. In my case, however, I was (and still am) far too easily distracted not to have ended up wandering down the hall to play with the so-called quietly amused kids, instead of doing my own work.
   So here we are again...being asked by a higher authority to go and amuse ourselves quietly, with the promise that if we'll be able to make all the noise we want later on. As writers, of course, why not just think to ourselves, let's make all the noise we want right now...but in a creative way. Since we can't go to those proverbial "day jobs" everyone says not to quit, or use the first moment of writer's block as an excuse to go to the mall, or pretend that going out to dinner with a bunch of friends could be considered "research," why not settle back on your comfy couch (or wherever you like to write) with your trusty laptop and do exactly that...write.
     Then write, and write some more, and write some more...cheerfully jumping back and forth between unrelated documents as if you could care less if they ever see the light of day on some editor's desk, or if your friends ever read what you've created, or if that pompous bookstore owner ever considers your work worth her front window display. Because who cares? You're making yourself happy in the way you always have (by writing) when lots of other people have never actually been able to do that...that is, go and amuse themselves quietly.

Fame and Fortune

     When we were kids, my best friend, Sue and I were always waiting to be "discovered;" you know, a la Lana Turner at the soda fountain. Never mind that we lived in a tiny suburban town nearly 3000 miles from Hollywood and even if I flashed my most endearing smile, there would be no disguising my pathetically crooked teeth. Somehow we just knew that one day, while we sat gently twirling back and forth on the soda fountain stools at "Bo-Bo's" a California talent scout would appear and beg us to accept roles in his newest block buster film. Nowadays, of course, should this occur, our pictures would be more likely to show up on the side of a milk carton than a theater poster, but back then it was every young girl's dream.
     Needless to say, neither one of us (nor any of our friends, for that matter) were ever "discovered," and despite the fact most of us went on to have successful careers and raise happy families, the nagging sense that this opportunity somehow passed us by never truly goes away. Even now, when I read People magazine in the waiting room at the dentist, I can never quite convince myself that those celebrities "aren't truly happy." I'd even settle for being able to wear that tiny bikini, the heck with snagging the staring role in a major film.
     But I do think that basic recognition, and the attainment thereof is a whole different thing, as well as one that is not always beyond our expectations. Why else would refrigerator magnets been invented, for example, if not with the idea that some A+ spelling quiz  or "Student of the Week" certificate would need this item to display such achievements to anyone passing through the kitchen? And what mother doesn't have (tucked away in a drawer somewhere) the first (if not one and only) super-sentimental birthday card given to her by the least likely child to have purchased one?
     Writers have that same need for acknowledgement, and it usually takes very little time before one who cheerfully plunges into this creative field to recognize this painful reality, as well as become familiar with the roller coaster of emotions that accompanies its arrival. This amusement park analogy ranges from the initial outpouring of support (and purchases) of your first published novel, to one of your once closest friends announcing he/she never reads fiction, to the email identifying one of your short stories as a semi-finalist in a literary contest, to discovering one of your novels (complete with a personalized "signing" inside the front cover) selling for fifty cents at the local church bazaar.
    But of all the ego-busting, recognition struggling experiences for a writer, I would have to rank the bookstore consignment process at the top of the list. For those of you who have not yet entered this maelstrom of rejection, it is probably one of the most humbling experiences of what you may previously have considered your writing "career."
    My first venture into the world of bookstore marketing began with a small local bookstore, with a strong connection to the school in which I used to teach. Not only did they offer teacher discounts, but also participated in the annual Parents' Association fundraising book sale. The owner, who appeared to be a kindly gentleman, welcomed me warmly, introduced me to his dog and then firmly refused to carry my books because they only purchased books through their "distributer," the reason being that then they could return unsold copies. This might have made more sense to me had I had not been standing there with a physical box of books (which could come or go as often he wished) and also had not just mentioned that I lived in the same town.
     Ah well, onward, I thought, as I patted the dog's head and departed. My next stop was a larger bookstore in a popular local shopping complex. Here the owner spent considerable time touring me around the store in what appeared to be some sort of educational effort on her part, which would ultimately culminate in my understanding of how inferior my books were to the ones she carried. Then for some reason, she thought I should leave her one of my lame attempts at literature as a sample, keeping in mind of course, that she "has very little time for reading so probably won't" (read it, that is.)
     Thinking that a more touristy locale might work better, I then drove to the Cape's most historically prestigious enclave of summer visitors and stopped by the main street's charming book seller. After working my way through several underlings whose main job seemed to be to cluster around the cash register and smile inanely, I was finally introduced to the manager. He examined my novels briefly, then smiled pleasantly and told me that even though he would not be stocking my books, I would be welcome to come and sit on the sidewalk outside the shop's front door and accost passersby in an effort to sell autographed copies of my work (provided I brought my own chair and card table, of course).
      "You'll be surprised how many people stroll past here every day," he added encouragingly. It was currently mid-February and the temperature outside was a balmy 25 degrees.
      I don't mean to suggest that all the responses to my marketing efforts were completely negative. For example, one book I wrote takes place in Northampton, a good three hour drive from where I live. Nonetheless, though, I thought it was worth the effort to try and sell it in one of that town's local bookstores...the fact that I even used this particular bookstore (in a rather complimentary way) as one of the settings in the novel itself, also made it seem like the proprietors might be interested. After immediately turning me down, they did, however, suggest that perhaps I could make a "poster" advertising my book and "drop it off the next time I was in the area"...which, as I previously pointed out, is three hours from where I live.
    Then there was another Cape bookstore that cheerfully accepted my books as a "welcome addition" to their "local author section." Later I found out that in order to peruse this "special section" you had to be no more than three feet tall (as it is on the very bottom shelf next to the floor) and possibly bring a flashlight, (as it is located in the darkest corner of the back room). Nonetheless, they have sold some of my books, in particular one they displayed briefly in the front room, which was actually purchased the day after they moved it there. One would think this might be an incentive to try this approach again, but so far (based on my subsequent visits) this does not seemed to have occurred to them.
     My work also was equally welcomed at another Cape bookstore, the owners of which were actually the parents of two of my students. "We love local authors!" they declared, and even suggested I might hold a reading and a book signing at their store, an event for which they would contact me "soon after the holidays." Perhaps I should have asked which holidays they were referring to, since a number of them have since passed since then and the only communication I have received is a recent form letter requesting me to come and pick up my books as they have been on the shelves "for more than six months" as their "space is limited." Keep in mind these books have been selling regularly and I have even been asked to bring replacements along the way.
      So now, lest you think my attitude has become completely pessimistic regarding this marketing approach, here's my favorite thing to do on a sunny Cape Cod afternoon...drive to Orleans where in a relatively obscure shopping plaza there is an independent bookstore called The Booksmith. On the door is sign that notes how dogs are welcome and once inside, a spacious display of attractively arranged reading material of a variety of genres immediately appears...one that is frequently rearranged to highlight the store's diverse inventory. There is also a massive collection of music CDs on one side of the front room, and in a second room at the back of the store, an impressive collection of what is now known as "vinyl" (or what we aging hippies refer to as records). The rack of dog treats near the cash register is another added bonus.
      And guess what? My books are here too, with the covers that all the above bookstores raved were "impressive" (after which the only part of the books they ever had facing outward were the spines) are, in fact, fully visible facing the customers. I sell a fair amount of books in this store, but as for fame and fortune, I have to admit I have yet to achieve that long awaited moment of "discovery" in Orleans, MA. What I can say, however, is that whenever I drop off more of my books at the Booksmith, the owner smiles at me and says "thank-you for allowing us to sell your books!" Eat your heart out, Lana Turner. This is what it's really all about.

Truth or Dare

      Back when we were kids (and later when my kids were kids), we (and then they) used to play a game called "Truth or Dare." As I recall, though, the rules of this game degenerated somewhat from the decidedly tame and inhibited 1950s and early 60s, once it was the 1980s. But the basic idea remained much the same. When it was your "turn," you had to decide whether you would tell the "truth" about something another player asked you, or whether you preferred to take "a dare" and do something they told you to do.
     The more savvy players, of course, opted for the "truth" (because notoriously we lied, anyhow), as often the "dares" were far more undesirable. By the time I became a teacher, in fact, and this game often erupted on field trip buses, the "dares' could easily get you suspended, whereas the "truths," well, that depended on your individual level of naiveté (or perhaps more importantly, how good your poker face was).
     I think about that game a lot, now that I've become a writer...or am trying to became one, at least. This is because I realize that I am not very daring...never was, and at my age, am likely never to become so. Many of my regrets, in fact, stem from times when I had the chance to to something impractical, outrageous, dangerous, or otherwise daring, and (sometimes at the very last second) turned down the opportunity.
     As a parent, I would tell my children how wise that decision was, how proud I was of them, and so forth, and pat myself on the back for having raised them so well. But to be honest, I would also be secretly pleased that I didn't know about the all the daring things they did do, because (having survived these escapades, of course), these "dares" ultimately made them better, more experienced adults, who would eventually handle life ever so much better than I have.
      But back to writing...again reminding myself that this is a blog in which I write about writing. I'm feeling like a lot of the weaknesses in my writing stem from the fact that I don't take enough risks..."dare," if you will, to tell the "truth" in my stories. What I mean is, that my books are very tame...i.e., they don't reach out and grab the reader with same startling realities as say, Lisa Genova in her harsh portrayals of brain disorders, or John Grisham in his gripping suspense-filled narratives, or even Stephen King in his bloody horror stories. And yet these are all books I love to read.
      My characters tend to be real people, which I suppose is fine, living real lives with emotional dilemmas that many of us can relate to. Yet two of my favorite authors, Anne Tyler and Richard Russo also have these kinds of characters and are far more successful at weaving stories around them. So what is the difference that accounts for their success?
     Okay, good agents and aggressive marketing aside (as well as a bit of just plain luck), I think it all goes back to "Truth or Dare." In other words, how much "truth" they "dare" to put into their writing. I always used to quote Hemingway to my students (and to myself, as well, I suppose), when his advice about writing was to "write about what you know." But is it what you "know" or what you "really know" that you should be putting into your work?
     I am working on the final draft of a new novel called Reunion. Coincidentally, I started writing this right after (or perhaps, at least in my head, during) my own high school reunion, which I attended in 2018. And no, I'm not telling you which reunion it was; suffice it to say that enough time has gone by for a good many memories to be created and possibly surface in the process.
     I started this project by creating a group of characters who were close friends and composites mostly of me, but also of some of my childhood acquaintances. It's impossible, by the way, for a writer not to put parts of him or herself in the characters he/she creates, which, in itself, tends to make one wonder about some of the lives of some of the best-selling authors we all know and love. It's also not possible to create a character that doesn't have at least some minor traits of other people the writer has encountered along the way. Otherwise, these characters would be incredibly flat and inspire little or no interest from the reader. In other words, if we can't relate to the characters in a novel, we don't care what happens to them.
   This is where I think that my writing abilities diverge from those of truly talented writers. I care too much what happens to my characters; I'm happy to get them in trouble, or perhaps to behave poorly at times, but I can't seem to help but rescue them at the last minute, or imbue them with some totally redeeming (though perhaps briefly hidden) personal qualities that will allow the reader to forgive and truly admire them again. In other words, I don't "dare" leave them out there to deal with the "truths" of real life and its consequences.
    Here's the other thing; I don't seem to mind creating villains...in fact, I can do that rather well (which often makes me wonder what that says about my own life). But more often than not, I then end up worrying about how harsh I have been in the creation of these "bad guys" and worse yet, how precisely they might resemble real life individuals I may have encountered along the way. Then, as my grandmother would have said, "what will people think?"
    So imagine writing a book about a group of friends preparing for their 50th high school reunion. Sounds kind of boring until you actually start thinking how many memories these characters have amassed in this number of years, and thus how many ancient skeletons are rattling around in their respective closets. For those born after 1980, it might be a bit hard to imagine anything particularly steamy or regrettable that could have occurred back then. If this is the case, I suggest you watch "The Graduate" or perhaps a Woodstock documentary and broaden your perspective a bit.
    Anyhow, suffice it to say that memories of the bad guys get worse over time, and the minor sins of the good guys become more embarrassing, and possibly more intensely regrettable. And, as a writer if you "dare" to put the "truth" out there about either or both, you could end up with a hell of a good book...but also a rapidly diminishing social circle. On the other hand, if you don't, then honestly, why bother? Because you just created 300 pages of bargain bin material, and don't have any more of a social life than you did before.
     So... Good writing tip # 3,425,690: write about what you know, and don't be afraid to "dare" to tell the "truth." Especially since everyone knows that we writers are all notorious liars, right?

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