Whisperings

My play is calling to me.

Well, its characters are, and that means I need to devote the afternoon to writing (once my classes are over and I've eaten a little lunch). You see, my characters had been talking and interacting all night while I slept, and they gave me a rather interesting dream.

I dreamed last night that I was with a film star... though now the identity of the star escapes me. It's not the first time I've dreamed of film stars. I always pick the weird ones, too, the ones I'm not at all attracted to, like Rutger Hauer, Bobcat Goldthwait, etc. I once dreamed Desi Arnaz had asked my mom to marry me, and she was trying to urge me into it, even though he was really, really old (he died less than a week after I'd had the dream).

Anyway, I had separated from my husband and hadn't seen my two kids, and this star was trying to woo me into becoming his significant other, furnishing his fabulous apartment with stuff he thought I'd want, etc. I was holding back, cautious, wanting to visit my kids and husband, but when I went to our house (a brownstone in Chicago, a place and kind of house I would never live in, mind you), I discovered that my husband had left for Europe (probably in anger that I'd left) and the kids were living with my mother-in-law.

The frightening part of this is that everything was unemotional, as if I was afraid to feel anything about my husband, or this actor guy, or my own kids. I was numb, rather like the female character of my play is feeling. I kept wondering, while dreaming, what was going to happen to wake me up, and I realized that the only thing which could break me out of the misty funk I was in was my husband--his physical presence, his touch, a word of caring or recognition.

I woke up, and suddenly I knew what to do with my characters. They fell into place beautifully, and I knew that my main character had to know, in some real, certain way, that her husband wouldn't abandon her, that he'd be glued to her no matter how broken she was. Only then could she heal. If she thought he could get up and leave, she'd leave him first, just so that she wasn't the one left behind. And he needed the same assurance, that she wouldn't leave him like she'd left her own father, left so many other boyfriends before she'd met him, left so many jobs, left places and friends, anything that wore on her too much. His greatest fear was that she would take off, and he'd never see her again.

Heavy stuff for a morning, I know, but I appreciate my characters working through this for me, so that I could have the answers when I woke.

Now if I could just figure out who that film star was.

If I were...

Writer Lady found a meme that seemed more fun than most... and you can check hers out from the link above. Here's mine, and if you want to do this exercise, too, feel free!

If I were . . .

If I were a month I’d be March.

If I were a day I’d be Monday.

If I were a time of day I’d be 6:30 a.m.

If I were a font I’d be Edwardian Script.

If I were a sea animal I’d be a narwhale.

If I were a direction I’d be northwest

If I were a piece of furniture I’d be an antique piano missing a few ivories.

If I were a liquid I’d be a warm chai latte.

If I were a gemstone I’d be a diamond.

If I were a tree I’d be a quaking aspen.

If I were a tool I’d be a pocket knife will all the trimmings.

If I were a flower I’d be a lily of the valley.

If I were an element of weather I’d be a thunderstorm.

If I were a musical instrument I’d be a piano (amazing how that works for two categories.)

If I were a color I’d be pale blue.

If I were an emotion I’d be enthusiasm.

If I were a fruit I’d be a raspberry.

If I were a sound I’d be laughter.

If I were an element I’d be oxygen.

If I were a car I’d be a sporty Volkswagon Beetle.

If I were a food I’d be German Pancakes (you'll have to ask me about this one--yummy!).

If I were a place I’d be a garden.

If I were material I’d be velvet.

If I were a taste I’d be buttery.

If I were a scent I’d smell like clean clothing.

If I were a body part I’d be a hand.

If I were a song I’d be Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!

If I were a bird I’d be a nightingale.

If I were a gift I’d be a book.

If I were a city I’d be Eureka, CA.

If I were a door I’d be solid, and inset with a stained-glass window.

If I were a pair of shoes I’d be running shoes with gel insoles.

If I were a poem I’d be a sonnet.

I'm not sure what this even says about me, but it was so much fun to do! A nice break from thinking too much. Now it's back to writing my play!

Writing Workshop

By a lucky chance, I found a little writers workshop right here, not fifteen miles away. A small $25 takes care of registration and lunch, and though we didn't plan for it time-wise, my sweet hubby said, "Go for it," when I saw the advertisement.

The great thing about workshops like these is that they don't have to be great to be inspiring. I went to one a few years ago that was mostly geared towards fantasy/sci-fi, and yet I came away from it ready to write. I met a bunch of other writers, we all got a bit giddy, and I returned home and wrote, wrote, wrote.

I hope the same happens today. Wish me luck!

Writing Questions

Since I want to know all of these questions from you, I'll ask them of myself first:

1. Whose writing does your own most resemble?

Answer: My writing is probably most similar to Shannon Hale's YA lit.

2. Which writer's writing and revising habits does your method most resemble?

Answer: Gustav Flaubert. He'd work and rework a sentence for a month to make it right. I tend to revise my stuff eleventy-seven times before I find myself willing to send it out to anywhere really important.

3. Of past writers, which do you wish you had been in another life?

Answer: I wouldn't wish to live their lives (none were that happy), but I wish I'd written Shakespeare's stuff (obviously!)... if not his, then Austen's, Dickens's, or Chaucer's (even the bawdy ones). I'd also love to have written Hawthorne's novels.

And now, your answers...

Dressing Up

Just for once

Pretend

To be something

Someone

From another time or place

Robotic

Piratical

Olympian god

Lying, you say

Play acting

A childish game of pretend

Perhaps it is

But children know the truth of this

The clothes, the lace, the parasol

May not be the modern you

The you projected to the world

But it reflects the something of yourself

You keep

Deep

Inside

The someone whom you hide

And shut away

The someone others

Never understand

Shut it away no more

And play

Be open to the you

You can learn from

The you you can become.

Screaming

The bay door closes

The cacophony begins

Two little ones

Tired of sitting on their mothers' laps

Begin the wail of wails.

Mothers hush to no effect

Their voices taking turns with screams and cries

Which echo through the cabin

Curling all the hairs on necks

Of those without Bose headphones

Or hearing aids (turned down).

No use for it

No getting off

We can't just land the plane

And let the babies crawl around a bit

Nor can we get them sleeping

Their ear infection keeps them raging on

Four hours whine by

Grating, setting every nerve on edge

And as we stand to trudge on down the aisle

One passenger lies, "Your baby was so good!"

I fight the urge to flick her in the head.

Dear relatives,

Who want to see your lovely nieces'/nephews'/grandbabies' faces

Who nag and nag by phone to get a visit

Next time you feel the urge to nag

Do all of us a favor

Buy yourself a ticket

Get your own maturer self onto a plane

And go to see the family babies

To spare us all the torture.

Playwriting

I am on vacation (have been since Thursday--yippy!), and that means I have been moving into "writing mode." (Repeat: yippy!)

I admit, after a hard semester of teaching, it may take me several days of lying around and doing nothing before I can enter such a mode. I am also visiting a friend in Kansas, and we have discovered that we have vastly different ways of writing--she at a desk, I reclined; she with the television, I in utter silence (or with very soft music playing in the background). Right now, though, she is exhausted, finally relaxing after months of utter stress, so while she snores (softly) in the background, I can get some work done.

Nice.

You see, I don't write for the money. I don't dream about being a famous writer while I'm drifting off to sleep at night. I don't dream of quitting my day job once I sell something. I just love the act--the feel--of writing. I like it better than a hot shower, as much as a cool breeze. It eases headaches, relaxes my shoulders, and draws me in better than a movie in a dark theatre. Writing is simply a fantastic exercise. Rather like painting.

Playwriting is the best, too, for it includes not only this ecstasy of writing, but also promises another treat in the future: getting my writing read by actors. I'm part of the Seattle Playwrights Collective, and the play I'm swimming in now is set to get a dramatic reading in May. That means, very soon, I will hear my play's words spoken by real, talented actors. I'll hear where the elements falter, where the plot doesn't thicken fast enough, and I'll have the privilege of hearing the parts that work as well.

I feel more lucky than I can say. I may never get one of my novels published, and no play of mine might make it to Broadway, but the act of writing and honing them is the best part.