The Parent Factor

I really wanted to post something about Thanksgiving. Like, I REALLY wanted to. These past few weeks have taught me what thankful really means. My mom told me a grateful heart is rarely unhappy. I was going to make momma proud. But I think I'm out of the Thanksgiving window now. According to the Christmas commercials I was out of the window before Thanksgiving even got here.

But this post is not about thankfulness or a rant on commercialism. It's about writing. And how I think I might be getting better.

Before the kiddo I think I was a decent writer. According to my wife I could be too wordy, but I really like words. I tended to gravitate toward darker things. I created intricate characters who had deep troubles which swam in secret thoughts (see! words). But as I pull up the novel I finished over the summer, Running out of Road, I realize I there is so much missing from my main character. I worked hard to give him quirks, but you could tell in my writing I didn't even believe they were real. Saying his flawed is an understatement, but I'm realizing it may be overstated. He is completely unaware of himself. I know we all struggle with becoming self aware, but I'm surprised at times my character knows when he's hungry. I'm also noticing he takes himself way too seriously. I'm having my hard time wrapping my mind around this given it's a quality I dislike in other people and in myself. No wonder I've had a hard time connecting with this guy. There was no levity to him. How are you going to want to read about a character if I don't like writing about him?

I believe this is where the parenting factor kicks in. All the things I just wrote about are problems with my book I'd been aware of when reviewing and revising, but could never recognize consciously. I just knew something is wrong. It's like I was hiding all this from myself to prevent having to do more work. Is that the reason all authors hate rewrites, or am I just lazy? Either way, I can't/won't hide from those things anymore. Not with the kiddo. She doesn't let me hide. My mistakes are my mistakes. I can't glaze them over with a bunch of pretty words. Words don't work on her. I can't pretend that my intentions aren't selfish at times. I also can't act like I'm totally cool and not goofy in love with this little creature. I care less what I look like to others and care more how she sees me. In other words I see myself more clearly, flaws and all. Sometimes it's good and I like myself, sometimes it's bad and I hate myself. But that's honesty. And that's honestly how we all feel as I talk to friends, clients, etc. This is the solution to my flat character. Now to go back and rewrite again.

Damn it.

And when you show comment love...

When you comment, I take it to heart. I have rewritten the scene where my main character's producer tells him why she continues to film him. I've tried to include some of the ideas you've given me to give meaning to her artistic obsession with him.

“Ok, Jeff. You can think whatever you want about me.”

            “It’s not just what I think.”

            “Well I don’t care what the crew thinks either. I know my reasons.”

            “And what benignly artistic reasons are those?” Jeff asked sarcastically with a laugh. He got up and walked to the bathroom.

            “Don’t act like you’re better than me. I’m doing this for the same reasons you are. And maybe a few more,” Salem said slightly louder so her voice would carry into bathroom. She could hear him pissing loud and clear. After the toilet flushed Jeff walked back to the bed, passing up washing his hands.

            “You can spare me the pep talk bullshit. I run whether or not you film it. I’d do this without the cameras. I’d do it without the fame.”

            “I know. That’s why I’m doing this.”

            Jeff sat back against the headboard of the other bed and began flipping channels on the TV.

            “You can stop acting so hard Jeff. I took one look at you and knew you weren’t some driven husband focused on justice and love. You’re scared shitless and you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. This whole annoyed-with-this-show-and-this-running is just your little way of dealing with the fact you’ve been lost from the beginning.”

            Jeff turned her. His expression was hard to read.

            “I worked on the documentary about the Chilean miners who were stuck. You aren’t much different than them. You all were separated from those you loved by some sort of ‘suspended death’ or whatever your writer’s mind would like to describe it as. You all did something superhuman. And you are all incredibly flawed. Those men had mistresses. I won’t even go into everything else that went on. But you’re flawed too. I’m glad you know it. But that’s what makes me film you. You are so flawed…like them…like me. We’re alike in that we’re greedy. I had some time to research you before we met. By the way you write I can tell you want the awards and the money. But the artist in you wants none of it. We’re no better than selfish little adolescents, angst ridden and starry-eyed.” Salem waved her tattooed stump in the air for emphasis.

Jeff forced a scoff before saying, “You are so wrong.”

            “I think you may have just proven me right.”

            His only response was to pretend being interested in the last soap opera still being aired.

            “So, rest assured, I’m capturing you quite honestly. I’m not deluded enough to think you’re a superhero. But you are a hero, whether you like it or not. And it’s your flaws that make you that way. Anyone can be courageous when they have no fear. Anyone can have clarity of vision if they aren’t confused. When you run, when you love her, it makes me believe my own flaws won’t destroy me. And if you can make me lose my cynical objectivity about this human race for even just one episode, then you are a hero. It’s you who isn’t being honest. The sooner you accept who you are and what you’ve done, the better we’ll all be. Including Shauna.”

            He looked away from the TV out the window.

            “Ok,” Salem said before seeing herself out.

 

The measure of a man

Shame on you if you thought something Freudian.

The main character of my most recent novel (and all of my novels come to think of it...I need to branch out) is a man. I have a special interest in "issues of masculinity" in my therapy practice because there are many things about being male in this culture which I believe we have never taken a long, unbiased, honest look at. I loved learning about Man Policing: the act of checking a man when he says something which is considered effeminate. It cracks me up that certain companies have made whole advertising campaigns based on this concept. It seems what you drink is the thing which needs to be policed for masculinity the most. But it doesn't stop there. What we wear, what we are interested in, what we drive, how we pass our time...all are apparently part of the male expression.

But does hunting gear really validate my masculinity or just fill a market? And why is that labeled as masculine whereas something like...I don't know...fine motor skills is just neutral and either gender can use it without it having to fit in a column (i.e. a mechanic vs. a seamstress; both use fine motor skills).

I catch myself when writing my main character hearing the judgements of man policing. He's not a "manly man." He's not a wimp either.As William Pollack pointed out in Real Boys, men are often defined by what they're not rather than what they are (paraphrased). But to look at the whole wimp thing, the whole effeminate thing, I think it's pretty telling of the only thing men can point at and say "that's what makes me a man."

Being strong.

The most horrifying times of my life, times when I felt like less of a man, was when I was powerless...weak. It gave me only one choice: stuff it and soldier on. To be strong is a black and white subject. You can't be "kinda strong" and be "kinda a man." That's flimsy. Corruptible. Weak. One are the other. Choose. And in choosing strength you become strong. Resolute. Unbending. A man. Nevermind everything else you are experiencing. No wonder no man ever admits having trepidation, even if it's just a little.

So I've decided to bring a new definition of strength in my main character, Jeff. I want him to transcend the black and white of "I'm a strong man" vs. "I'm weak and no longer a man." I want Jeff to be measured by a bigger, longer ruler (shame on you again, Freudian). I want his strength and manhood to be measured by how much he can change. I want Jeff to be strong enough to adapt and overcome through weakness without running from it. I want him to rise to the occasion (shame). I want Jeff to measured by how much he can evolve because I have to believe we all can.

Now...you have any ideas on how I can write that?