Character Question 3 - Who is Sauri?

Sauri Ann McLintock was born on the 6th of May, 26 years ago. She had married young and had the expected 2 children, one boy and one girl. She lived, with her husband Miguel, in the upstairs apartment of a pink stucco building with wide window sills, downtown at the end of Wood Street. The sidewalk ran in front, and there was an empty lot across the street, behind the graveyard.

Sauri would describe herself as a mother and wife, but in truth she wasn't sure who she was anymore. Had her chosen identities taken over her entire being; she felt smothered. This wasn't her, well, it was, it was part of who she was; she'd always wanted to be a mother, a wife, it was the expected womanly role, but what of her? She didn't know anymore. Where was she? Who was she? Did she really like that pair of black socks or did she just wear them because it was expected, because that was what she had... of were they truly her and what she liked?

She sighed... fear gripped her and threatened to bury her alive as she leashed her retriever, Keltie, and carefully locked the house door, running up the trail onto the bluff where she would be able to breath easier and have room to think. 

The Secret Life of Characters

Today, I spent time moving and pricing stuff in preparation for the garage sale I have having next week. It's something I have been trying to get organized for awhile as I am trying to purge and clean out things I no longer need. My biggest hang up is books. What to keep and what to get rid of? I'm uncertain if I will even put the books in the garage sale. However, this got me thinking about the secret lives of characters. One of the things I love about Jasper Fforde's books is that his characters can go in and out of books and that the characters in books are only living a part on the page, like actors in a movie, and have whole other lives outside their 'home' books.

As a writer, one of the things I love about my characters is learning about them through the story. But, now that my novel, "The Trade Off," has been written in first draft, which I am about to revise, I am wondering what else I can learn about the characters which isn't in the book. I suspect that if I become intimately acquainted with the characters, aside from the story line, that it will help them become more vibrant on the page.

So... I am going to begin a series of posts where I explore aspects of the characters in relation to real life and I hope you will join me on the voyage and enjoy getting to know their secret lives with me. 

A Writing Blueprint

I have never been a fan of New Years resolutions and last year my solution was to make New Years wishes. In my post, New Beginnings, I referred to Emily Starr, a character in the books Emily of New Moon, Emily Climbs, and Emily's Quest, by L.M. Montgomery. In the Montgomery's books Emily is a writer and she often writes letters from her present self to her future self. I contemplated doing the same with my New Years wishes. My thought was to write a letter to myself containing my hopes for the coming year in and asking questions about where I am now and if the things I've wished have happened. The idea being to open this small time–capsule New Years Eve and consider its contents.

Now, as I sit here, I'm attempting to imagine what I would have said and how I would feel upon reading such a missive from my younger self; I wish I'd actually written the letter. What I did do last March was start a wish book which helped me resolve several things in my life. However, I have no desire to read it.

Looking back I recall the types of things I mentally wished for and see I didn't manage to accomplish everything. Somethings in my life have turned out drastically different than I would have imagined and others have worked out better that I would have thought. But I'm happy with what I've done. I've managed to rearrange my schedule to get more writing time, I've grown as a person, I've found a balance which works for me in my creative work and I've currently have 8 submissions out that I'm waiting to hear back on.

In thinking of this I have looked at the coming year as a whole and decided on what some reasonable expectations would be. Now, everyone knows for a wish to come true one must keep it a secret so these plans are not wishes, nor are they resolutions. Resolutions are like chores one doesn't want to do but knows one should and I have no wish to hang that stone around my neck.

Instead my thoughts for this next year take the form of a writing blueprint; an elaborate plan containing all the specific information needed for the construction and completion of a my desired writing project – down to the margins, formatting and type of font required. The following is my blueprint for the next year. It is a continuation of the work I began in October and, when completed, will provide the foundation necessary to ensure I have a growing number of finished pieces to submit to various markets which will hopefully result in publication.

1) First Draft of new story (A Queer Fairytale)
2) Changing Tides (minor revisions and polish and send out) 
3) First Art related article (reproof and send out)
Jan 15th (total = 10)
4) The Wall and Wishes and Dreams (add missing pieces, revise, polish)
5) Memory Files (revisions and polishing)
6) Still, I stand (minor revisions, polish and send out)
Feb 15th (total = 11)
7) Reread The Wall, Wishes and Dreams and Memory Files, put on final polish and send out. Reproof, polish and send out any of the 8 stories currently submitted places, as needed.
(total = 14)
6) Mobri's Dragon (revise)
7) A Queer Fairytale (revise and edit)
8) Write first line story
March 30
9) Continue working on Times Heart and The Trade Off. 
10) Revise first line story and finish the "winding stair" story – find a title for it.
11) Polish and send out first line story, Mobri's Dragon and A Queer Fairytale
June 1st (total = 17)
12) SUMMER BREAK – Break from writing and begin 10 hour days at work and play with fabric, inks, drawing and other visual art type projects, hike, kayak and relax and gather ideas.
13) September 01 take a brief breather. 
14) Assess goals, decide on where I am and where I want to be and revise blueprint as needed. Continue working on pieces to send out and the novels, Times Heart and The Trade Off.


All stories will be constructed in Times New Roman font. Drafts will be stored in individual files marked with the stories title. All submissions will follow the submission guidelines specific to the place they are being submitted. Numbers for items in circulation will be recorded with date of submission, title of story, place submitted and expected response time. The totals specified in the plan take into account those stories currently in the submission pools (starting status = 8). 

Of course, this is just a surface picture of the entire blueprint I'm working from. Like the sketch of a finished house without the nitty gritty plans for each floor. I haven't included blogging, writing excercises, correspondence, research, and the possibility of other new work arising within the course of the year. I have simply worked with the stories currently finished or underway. And the deadlines, as in any project, may be shifted as lifes crises arrise. But, if I follow the plan I should end up with the minimum end result – a growing collection of completed, polished work and increasing options.

And as I ponder resolutions, wishes and plans I'm struck with the realization that they largely reflect the things which are important in some way, changes and progress towards a goal that matters and I wonder if everyone wrote theirs down what they would all look like.

Photos: Above right taken at dusk in Haines Junction 2009 Easter weekend. Above left taken in 2005 at a small forestry day use/ trail head camp just before Stewart BC.

The Art-Writing Connection: Part 1

I spent this summer immersed in teaching children the process of creating art. I taught them how to observe the things around them and work with different materials and imagination through a series of steps to produce their own unique visual art. The projects has now specific "end" product as the activities were open ended allowing the children to create pieces which were truly theirs, but the process was what took them from beginning to end.

I began drawing around the same time I began writing, around the age of 7, and soon began experimenting with creating things in 3D as well as dabbling in paint. But drawing was always at the centre. In the past few years as I've begun getting back into creative visual pieces (very slowly)I have noticed that the different use of my creativity spills over into my writing and kind of spurs it forward a little. However, it wasn't until I took a workshop with Maria Lousia through the LLAMA Project that I began from her description of process to wonder if artists, like writer's get epiphanies about their work and what that looked like. Click here for the post I wrote about my experience.

This summer, even though I myself created little work as I taught and worked with the children attending my program, Adventures in Art. I began to get a glimpse of this epiphany because I gave leash to myself to explore without bounds what I could do and I'd have to say the most exciting epiphany I got was from a shirt I created for someone else that took on a second and third layer of meaning which related to culture and stories.

This shirt was to be a gift for a baby one of my partner's co-workers had given birth to. He told me he wanted it to be dyed black and orange and to have some kind of print on it - the suggestion was hockey sticks. My response to that was that I would dye the shirt and if I was printing it I wanted a design I was going to use again. So I got out all my dyes, tied it and died it - imagining in my head how the colours may turn out. Then I got out the block cutters and the vinyl printing blocks and draw a design of a young Raven, or it was supposed to be. Then it hit me. Black, orange, Raven, Sun. The shirt, if it turned out would be "How Raven Stole the Sun," which is a very well known aboriginal story told in the Yukon. I was on air. The shirt, like all first attempts needs some work, but the process was a journey I'll never forget.

About the pictures: Top - I began this one almost 3 years ago and am slowly working on it. It hasn't really spoken to me about what it's about yet - I have a few ideas that's all. My mother asked if it was a self portrait and it might be.... Bottom - the experimental shirt. I'm still trying to find a way to make the printing ink adhere better so it's darker and there are many other flaws I'm not happy with, but that's what happens... it's all part of the process :) 

Part 2: The Birth of a Writer

People who know me are constantly saying they, "don't know how I do it." Some have even asked me how I do it, meaning how do I raise a family, work a day job, be an active part of the community and find the time to write. I've found this a hard question to answer as there's no real "how" to it, and "because I have to" doesn't convey anymore information than replying to the question, "who are you?" with, "I'm me."

I began writing and drawing at a young age. I bore my own children young, birthing my first at 20. There was a period of 10 years where my writing and my children shared scant space. My writing starved, but my children thrived and my creativity found outlet in changing knitting patterns and sewing quilts, adding my own mark to everything I made. This happened for many reasons, not because I was sacrificing myself for my children, but rather I couldn't figure out how writing fit into the mold of who I was supposed to be, what I thought was excepted. I didn't know how to be both and would later find I didn't in fact know myself.

During my abstinence, my writing obstinately tried to break out of the drawer where I'd shoved it; calling to be set free - to breath. And when I could no longer resist, I began the physical act of writing again, embarking on a surprising journey of self-discovery leading to more than a half-starved writer. It was the beginning of an inner awakening, the realization of who I was and it resulted in my becoming the whole person I was born to be in more ways than one. Along with this came the knowledge of how close I'd been to losing myself permanently, my identity and how deeply I'd been buried. One can't discard or reject a part of ones self without consequences and I'd been doing that for years - every time something about who I was didn't fit into the perception of who I should be. We tell our children they can be anything they want - but do we actually mean it. Does society really support it?

I don't regret this time, it simply was. When I think of the path my life might have followed if I'd kept writing when I was first married and had children I know my writing would not me the same as it is now - it would lack the depth and knowledge of my experiences within the drawer. Just as people who bear children when they are older parent differently than those who bore theirs earlier in life, my writing would have developed differently.

Birthing babies, never mind raising them, takes time and is hard on your body. A doctor will tell you it takes about 3 years for your body to recover after having a baby, he doesn't mean from the delivery. My children are 3 years apart, but I could swear my body didn't really recover until my youngest hit 6 or 7. I don't know if there is such a thing as recovery after birthing a story. Unlike being pregnant, writing breeds more writing. I heard an editor once refer to this  phenomenon as having a disease, once you caught the writing bug you couldn't stop. I view it as a blessing. When you experience starvation for awhile you don't take it for granted anymore.

No two writers write the same, every artist's work is distinctive to it's creator in some way and yet takes on a life of it's own; two pieces only being alike in the same way all children are children.  Each of my children is uniquely individual with their own characteristics, likes, dislikes and temperament. This can also be said for each of my stories. Most develop in the womb of my mind in a similar fashion, but they all differ in essence, design and their needs during their up bringing. Some are easy and others I have a more difficult time with, those ones fight me all the way with temper tantrums and arguments, but they're often worth it; they're the ones that teach me something and help take my writing to the next level.

I've always been delighted by a newborns perfection - one doesn't expect they won't be, but the tiny fingernails, exquisitely formed features, downy hair is all so absolutely without fault or blemish - it's amazing. And I know when a story is done because I get that same feeling. I can examine it, take it apart in every detail, read and reread it and remain almost in a state of disbelief that this piece of work originated in my brain and came from my hands - indeed, that I wrote it.

Some writers wait until their children are grown to take up the pen; for me, waiting almost killed me - I cannot do that again. Instead, I'm among those who manage to find a way to birth and raise stories along with children synchronously. There are many challenges to overcome and many hurdles to vault to accomplish goals and achieve some kind of balance between it all. I don't believe it's easy for any of us. I do it because both make up a large part of who I am and what's important to me; knowing in the end both my stories and my children will step into the world and if I've done a good job they will stand on their own.

Carrying, birthing and raising a story is as much as part of me as carrying my children was when I was expecting. There are sacrifices, decisions and priorities. It's physically and emotionally draining and one learns to live with being tired some days. Insomnia often strikes as the story begins mid-night calisthenics with ideas flowing forward as it stretches and kicks me into getting up and madly writing in my notebook. I know from experience if I don't do this and just enjoy the feeling of all these great thoughts I'll spent the next 3 weeks trying to recall them and they will never be as vivid or as perfect as this moment of clarity, no two moments, sentences or thoughts being alike. And so I write them down and later tweak them, rewriting them and adding to them until they are complete whole beings.

I loved being pregnant. I love my children; to create is to breath and to write is akin to being with child - It's simply part of who I am.

Note: The black and white photo's ones I took of my youngest son playing at the park (summer 2009). The colour photo of me at the bottom was taken by my friend Jerome. 

The Hidden Life of the Story

The more I look back at my writing the more I am constantly surprised. 

If you ever have the opportunity to write a novel in a month I would suggest you at least give it a shot. It is amazing what can happen when one spends every waking hour possible eating, sleeping and breathing in the story. In November 2008 I wrote a novel in one month. It is to date such a raw draft I need to write another couple drafts before it will be what one might consider a normally thought out first draft, never mind a finished polished piece ready for submitting anywhere. However, because I wrote it so furiously and in such an uncensored way in order to get it out, it's raw emotion and chunkily drafted scenes have a flow and unity of plot and character it may not have had otherwise. I also got to experience the rush which happens at about 36000- 40000 words when all of a sudden the book pulls together and the ideas solidify, snowballing breathlessly to the climax and denouement. That truly was awe inspiring.

In that month my creative energy didn't just flow.... it boiled and, aside from the novel, I wrote a poem I'd been trying to write for months. Now anyone who knows me knows poetry is not my forté, but I managed to capture a feeling which had been alluding me in my prose and sprang to life on the paper as I listened to "KIng of Pain," by The Police, over and over again - freezing my thoughts and point of view in that one moment in time. I titled it "Strangers In a Coffee Shop."

Here we sit, the table between us,

Uncomfortable silence, an invisible wall, 

Separating us as we look at each other,

There’s nothing more to say,

Or is there….

How, can there be nothing?

When the time that fills the space,

The very air it takes up is fraught,

Our every breath, our every thought,

Ripped with inner tension….

How can one fein to ignore it?

What are these unspoken feelings?

So many words, there’s not

the voice, for which to say

all the things, untold….

Should we have been by birth-right

sisters? Siblings, mistakenly born

into separate families, our lives

like lines written across the page

forever drifting….

Our souls cut from one fabric,

Binding us, inexplicably drawing

us together in some mysterious 

and unexplainable way, or is it simply,

Fear…

Fear of the unknown,

Fear of what we both don’t understand,

Thinking we’re unnatural, weird, or somehow

different? Each rejecting ourselves,

Afraid to try….

It’s simply easier to ignore the words 

as they hang, left unsaid, within the air

that surrounds our beings and to run, 

To hide, and make-believe, there’s nothing there

to say….

And to wonder if, perhaps someday,

When the past has somehow been erased, 

These words will cease to come, and should we meet

by chance, we’ll go our separate ways

with grace.

As I read it over today I realize how much it lacks in describing what I'd intended, how much I didn't know,  and how I disagree with the conclusion and would wish for something else - something better, more human. And yet, it is but a reflection of one moment in time... a moment from which my perspective has shifted, changed and matured. And I'm undecided on whether I'm going to revise it or not.

It's interesting the things which jump out at me when I look over some of the things I wrote. Sometimes when I think I know what a story is about I will discover, months later, it was about something totally different. I was working on my story Memory Files last week. At one point Simon asks Mindy, "Do you love Frank?" (Frank is Simon's brother). Mindy, Frank's wife, says, "Yes, but I love you too. I love both of you." In that moment I suddenly realized where the story had come from, what it was about and why I wrote it. It was like getting kicked in the head... awe inspiring and painful at the same time. 

It is these things, these pieces of genuine emotion, experience and momentary reality  which provide the life giving pulse to any story fiction or non-fiction and allow the reader to connect with the character, to laugh, to cry, and to be one on the journey together. And it was my experiences in Banff which solidified for me the ability to take several unrelated moments in my life and blend them into a story with fictional characters and events in such a way that fiction and reality become one and the story takes on a life of it's own.

Thoughts for Breakfast

So, apparently I eat weird things for breakfast. At least, according to my friends who happen to be around mid-morning when I begin to forage in the cupboards pulling out strange things like, left over curry, carrots, fruit, granola bars, figs, egg plant, stir fry or the odd piece of pie.

Hey, who ever said pie wasn't a healthy thing to eat, it has fruit (generally) and grain , albeit loaded with sugar, lard and other calories. My favourite's raisin, or cherry, or apple, or... okay, I guess I don't really have a favourite, it's all good. In my mind food is food and when I'm hungry... probably not a good time for me to go shopping, unless you want me to bring back half the grocery store because everything looks so good I can't make up my mind what I want most.

Speaking of breakfast got me thinking about Jasper Fforde. Ruth McCullough first introduced me to his work during one of Jerome Stueart's creative writing classes. That was a neat class. Half of us students were writing great literary novels (or at least, we hope they will be) and the other half were working on fantasy that was generally pretty out of this world and great to read! The assignment had been to either write 5 blog posts on a book or bring a book in your genre that would appeal to the other half of the class and explain why. Ruth brought in Jasper Fforde's series about Thurday Next.

Thursday Next is a literary detective who's a member of this special group of people that police works of fiction. In about the fourth book, The Well of Lost Plots, when Thursday's pregnant with the child of her dead husband, she goes into hiding in an unpublished book. Her biggest complaint is that people in books never seem to have breakfast. There are tons of teas, dinner parties, lunches and socials, but apparently breakfast is too boring to write about. So, she gets these stock characters, blank characters with little or no personality often used as filler's in crowd scenes, and teaches them how to make breakfast for her. After all, they might as well be useful. This of course is in the residence she is housesitting while the "real" book character she's filling in for is on vacation and when she isn't playing the part the reader reads in the book... like being off set.

In breaking the breakfast rule, this is one book guaranteed to have many breakfast scenes and variety of food to eat. And in my mind, variety is the key to enjoying breakfast. I mean who made up "breakfast" food anyway. Why is it that only eggs, bacon, ham, toast, cereal (cold or hot), bagels, yoghourt, cottage cheese, muffins, biscuits, pancakes or waffles, and fruit salad, are "breakfast" food and everything else is snack or dinner food? That's a lot of grain, dairy, meat and fruit, without being much of a selection of anything. There's what... 4 kinds of bread, 2 of cereal, two kind of meat, and there are only so many ways to do eggs. Then we wonder why it is our arteries are plugged when we eat eggs, ham, and bacon with toast all the time, no thank-you.

Don't get me wrong. Those of you traditional breakfast lovers can have your bacon, eggs, cereal or whatever it is you want. But for me, having to only eat specific things for breakfast would be like only being allowed to write (or read) certain kinds of things one or two ways... where's the interest in that? For me, writing is an adventure to be savoured as I learn about my subject, the characters, or the world I'm creating, no two alike... kind of like breakfast. I wonder what it'll be tomorrow... maybe biscuits with olives, onions, a bit of olive oil, basil, majoram, tarragon (for sweetness) and a dash of pepper... not to forget a pinch of white wine vinegar... mmmm. Last time I made those my kids thought I was crazy. "Are you trying to kill us Mom... olives? In biscuits?" they said. But that was before they tasted them!