“Then, at last, sitting on her stretcher-bed, she took from the very bottom of her pack an old peacock-blue scarf folded around a heavy, square book. She unwrapped it and opened it very carefully, as if guilty secrets might fall from between its pages like pressed flowers. This was Harry’s secret. She was a writer.”
-from The Tricksters, by Margaret Mahy
to October 29 I’ve also moved my workshops to Tabor Place at 5441 S.E. Belmont–comfortable space with a coffee shop in the building.
Stay tuned for details about a mini-conference scheduled there: Making It In Tough & Changing Times. It will January 28, 2012
Going HomeJessica P. Morrell
Nostalgia is a file that removes the rough edges from the good old days. ~Doug Larson
Last month I went home to the small town in northern Wisconsin where I lived until I was fourteen. The occasion was my father’s 80th birthday and I found a place changed by time, and sometimes as I drove down the streets it seemed that I was seeing it for the first time because the reality of this place doesn’t match what exists in my memory and dreams.
I experienced the biggest gap between now and memory when at night the fireflies didn’t appear with their tiny inner lanterns. An uncle suggested they liked open meadows, a brother said they had them in their Illinois backyard. I since have learned that their best habitat includes standing water and long grass, and since the house I grew up was located near a creek and surrounded by meadows, I understand why I didn’t spot any in the town, city, and lakesides that we stayed in. But I was disappointed since I live in the West where fireflies mostly don’t exist and they were everywhere at night when I was a girl, they were part of dusk, part of dark, lighting the shadows and night and our gladiator arena where we played nighttime games and laughed about ghosts and spooks.
As writers we all need to return in memory to the places of childhood or our roots because without memory our writing cannot represent us fully and cannot be well-charged with emotion and sensory detail. We need to visit our origins to understand this queer pastime we’ve chosen, the reasons for why we became a person whose most absorbed and passionate hours are spent arranging and re-arranging words. Because going home illuminates our grown-up lives and if you’re a writer there are no forgotten children and there is always shelter and sky and seasons.
Even without knowing it, we all write from a sense of place and from the jumble of our pasts. And in these pasts were our confused emotions and hurts and secrets, the seed or source of our writing. Going home you can find your first literary idols and the library with its smell of books and wood and rain. You can find the specificity of detail that brings a place, and thus a story to life. Going home you might find the haunts and shadows, or the impetus for your feral imagination.
We can never truly recover our pasts, not even if we have reams of photographs and grainy films and boxes of childhood trophies. But we can search for them, and we can use sojourns into the land of memory as inspiration, or even a road map for writing. Memory and storytelling are as linked as right hand, left hand joining forces on a keyboard to shape words. We can trace our family dynamics or our cousin’s family dynamics into a story remembering if things were tense or easygoing or if secrets lurked. We can mine the senses, feel the intensity of times past, especially feelings of vulnerability or not knowing.
Unspooling the past we recognize how it adds breath and energy to our writing. That writing from experience, even if it’s emotional experiences, as opposed to actual experiences, has huge value. You ask yourself questions about your simple desire to tell stories and why your eight-year-old self wrote spy stories or horror tales and poems.
From the safe perch of adulthood I look back at the girl I was with all her longings, passions, and black-hearted jealousies. I can feel the keys of my Royal typewriter I owned as a girl, can see the desk I sat at, filled with such importance that I had my own desk, my own place to write. I find my clumsy metaphors, my girlhood griefs, the big and small cruelties of childhood, the words stuck or stalled in my throat, the bottled-up anger at small and large injustices, the insecurities and obsessions, the joys of running along the creek and playing games of make-believe, the breadcrumbs that lead to my starting point as a writer.
When going home you find the music of previous eras the songs that tug you back in time yet live on. You never forget these lyrics and their reminders of heartbreak or first love, or the giddiness of youth. It’s all there, the richness and texture and tangle of memory, the old and retold stories. At times the soft edges of the past and sharp lines of the present clash and groan like winter ice breaking up in the spring. And as we write from memory, more memories arrive, and with memory comes associations and inspirations and more stories. And we find patterns, sometimes that have gone unnoticed for years, threading through events and truths and discoveries.
But mostly when you go home, you see stories, a narrative, everywhere in the remembered and the now. Stories practically grow on trees and swim in the familiar air. The air of my past is heated and bathed in humidity and my grown up body finds these temperatures unbearable, but the baked summers of my childhood were spent in creeks and rivers, not air conditioning and summer arriving always returns me to childhood.
Of course we’ve changed from that person of past decades. It’s natural to grow and evolve and have new strivings and yearnings. But retrieve why you became a writer in the first place. The why of your writing self. Become a detective, a seeker after the treasure of your desires.
Go home to make peace with your past, with the pains and sorrows and lessons of all that was. This is not a sentimental journey, rather it’s an un-rosy pilgrimage, a necessary voyage.
Driving through my former hometown the streets were unpeopled and sleepy, the yards unoccupied, the windows blank. It seemed like a sound stage, when it wasn’t amplified by emotions and memories. The downtown is now mostly cell phone stores, secondhand shops, and auto parts stores. Missing was the J.C.Penney department store, the Woolworths and Ben Franklin, the shoe stores, dress stores, the daily newspaper office, the mom and pop bakeries, and family-owned diners.
While the downtown has withered, the town has blossomed on the outer edges near a freeway exit with chain motels, a Subway, McDonalds, a Wal Mart where you’ll find more people than anywhere else, a Piggly Wiggly, Dollar Store and Hallmark store. But there is still the majestic court house with its four-sided clock, the many graceful churches planted amid quiet neighborhoods, the library where I spent so much time as a girl which now houses some of my books. The legacy of the forest industry visible in the blocks of grand historic homes as well as in the forests that surround the town.
The Wisconsin River winds through the town, splashing over rocks and dams before joining the Mississippi. When I think back it’s the place where the sound of rivers and streams have slipped into my blood, a great birthplace for a writer. We all know that time changes us and places and things, but for writers the question is how.
Note: This column was written in August, 2010
I’ve got openings in both of my fiction critique groups that begin on October 3 in southeast Portland near 70th and Woodstock. Monday afternoons and Tuesday evenings. Write me for details. This experience will take your writing skills to the other side….
A heat wave has hit Portland and won’t end until next week, so I’m spending extra time watering my new plants and trees. Before it arrived, however, hints that fall was coming whispered in red tipped leaves and cooler nights. And speaking of fall:
There is still time to register for my Story Writing Intensive in Manzanita, Oregon 9/21-24 write, receive feedback, learn, walk on the beach–sounds like a perfect few days to me.
My critique groups in Portland begin October 3
I’m planning workshops in Vegas for February 2012 Please stay tuned.
And I’m still blogging at http://the writinglifetoo.blogspot.com
You can also find me on Facebook and Twitter
Story writing Intensive September 21-24
with Jessica Morrell
Manzanita, Oregon
Story Writing Intensive is open to writers serious about getting published. Our days and nights will be packed with lectures, one-on-one meetings, feedback sessions, and time to work on manuscripts (and walk on the beach). Enrollment for this Intensive is limited to no more than 12 participants and is by application only. Those who wish to attend must register with a (refundable) $100 deposit and submit the first 4 pages (1000-1200 words) of a manuscript (short story, novel, memoir) and you’ll provide writing samples to all attendees. Cost is $265. Tuition includes one catered lunch. Beverages and snacks will be provided and we will gather for a potluck dinner on Wednesday, September 21. The deadline for submitting writing samples is September 10. Manzanita is a charming village on the Oregon coast 15 miles south of Cannon Beach. We begin Wednesday night, September 21 at 6:30 for a dinner, introductions and opening remarks. Concludes Saturday, September 24 at 9 p.m. Generous handouts will be provided.
Expect a focus on:
Contact: Jessica Morrell at jessicapage(at)spiritone(dot)com for more information and a list of lodging. Checks may be mailed to: Jessica Morrell P.O. Box 820141, Portland, OR 97282-1141 or payment made by Paypal
©Jessica P. Morrell
I made mistakes in drama. I thought drama was when actors cried. But drama is when the audience cries. ~ Frank Capra
A few months ago I was part of a discussion about a writer’s novel-in-progress. The writer had been struggling for years to craft a compelling a novel—a sort of heartbreaking record, but one that is not uncommon. The group was at a loss at how to help this person create viable scenes and take his writing up a notch. And someone remarked that it seemed that the writer didn’t seem to know the difference between drama and melodrama. That remark was an epiphany for me and since then I’ve been wondering how this concept can be explained.
Because sometimes it seems that melodrama is sort of like pornography. As Justice Potter Stewart once famously remarked, he couldn’t define pornography, but he knew it when he saw it. But one person’s porn is another person’s erotica. And how can you separate drama from melodrama or rate a drama for its emotional content? Is Marley and Me melodrama? The Perfect Storm? Gaslight? 3:10 to Yuma? It’s A Wonderful Life? All of the above? Where are we going to draw the line?
Melodrama is known for heart tugging, hanky-wetting, tear-jerker sensationalized plots that push (usually traumatized) characters over the edge. While the term is associated with over the top and silliness, the form originated from a theatrical genre popularized in Europe, particularly France in the 1800s. Influenced by opera, it meant that literally music was added to the drama to heighten the effects of the unfolding actions and the most vivid moments were linked to the greatest suffering. The genre influenced the novel and in both plays and novels, melodrama has characters, plot, although plot can be minimal, simplistic dialogue, and a central crisis; sometimes an interpersonal conflict, sometimes physical jeopardy. However, these elements are taken to the limit and often exaggerated emotions are, well, emoted until they can become silly or farcical typically leading to a conventional happy ending.
Now melodramas can exist in any format and don’t require a musical score since they have run the gamut from 18th and 19th century fiction, silent era films, dime store novels, radio and television soap operas, films, particularly those in the first decades of Hollywood. After this legacy, less exaggerated dramas started being published, and were featured in films and television series. But the form has never died and often adventure stories and films are melodramatic as in the Indiana Jones film series. Jurassic Park is melodrama, I mean kids being chased by man-eating beasts― definitely has melodramatic elements, but most people think these are engrossing stories.
The situations central to melodrama are too many to mention, but many are associated with emotional or physical hardship and tests. In traditional theatrical melodrama the protagonist was buffeted by forces outside his control and is thus a victim of fate or the antagonist. Characters are sharply contrasted, although there is often an ally in the plot. Here is a partial list of situations: doomed love affairs, death-defying escapes, terminal illness, sick or dying children, hidden family insanity, mothers or heroes who sacrifice all for children or cast members, fallen women, parents losing their children, children losing dogs, orphans, suicide, amnesia victims, rags to riches, riches to rags, illegitimate heirs, disasters, torture. Goodness is rewarded or good always triumphs over evil. Bad guys are always, always caught. Strong jawed heroes don’t waver and are capable of extraordinary bravery and feats of derring-do. It’s easy to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
So for my money melodrama equals exaggeration, simplistic devices, stereotypes, and predictability. The writer doesn’t trust his audience or reader and nothing is left to inference or suggestion—everything is spelled out in broad, sweeping strokes. As soon as the villain strides into the scene we know immediately that his soul is as bleak as a coal mine. And the villain must be destroyed and must remain villainous and unsympathetic throughout, just as the hero must remain stalwart and just.
I spot melodrama in manuscripts when writers simply don’t know when to end a scene. In opera typically the players sing their longest, saddest songs when they are heartbroken or dying (some prolonged numbers happen during the falling-in-love scenes too). Similarly writers try too hard to milk sad or emotional scenes. The characters lack subtlety or nuance and proclaim their love, anguish, and longing in grand and lingering gestures. But often the more painful or emotional the moment, the more you need to use the ol’ ‘less is more’ rule. Back away from endless tears, protestations, conflagrations, and deathbed conversions. Real drama is more like life: bittersweet, complicated, sweaty. Which is maybe why I like anti-heroes so much. Give me a screw up because I can relate to him or her and the storyline will keep me engrossed because I’m never sure if his better angels will hold sway.
In melodramas the moral message rings shrilly and punishment for defying society can be harsh. Literary critic Northrop Frye in Anatomy of Criticism described a central theme in melodrama as “the triumph of moral virtue over villainy, and the consequent idealizing of the moral views assumed to be held by the audience.” In fact, often in melodramas cruel justice is meted out especially to women who stray from morals of the times, men who aren’t traditional breadwinners, and people who buck the system.
But here is where things get tricky, because melodrama doesn’t have to suck. Good guys can win and justice can prevail, but the story line and character development must hit just the right note. You know it sucks when readers laugh at a scene that you meant to be serious. Now fiction and drama is a world of hurt—in fact the basic tenet of storytelling is that someone must suffer. Doom and threat always hang over the character and he or she barely squeaks through the story events. But melodrama takes suffering to a fevered pitch, and offers little relief until the emotional catharsis at the climax. Myself, I want a roller-coaster ride of emotions, to feel highs and lows and even ambivalence toward the protagonist.
So how does this all apply to you, dear writer? Start with good intentions to tell a clean story about realistic people experiencing realistic emotions caught in a knotty situation that might not be realistic, but is somehow believable. Try not to be predictable. Allow your characters to change and grow, even the antagonists and villains. Blur distinctions between good and evil. Use foreshadowing, especially for revelations, and insert logical reversals. Use themes to underline the action with resonance. Know when to back away, when to hush the violins. Make the central conflict complicated and etched with hard choices. Be careful with character gestures and reactions—sprinkle them here and there, not after every comment. Melodrama entertains but it doesn’t make us think; drama helps us know our fellow humans.
“I don’t teach writing. I teach patience. Toughness. Stubbornness. The willingness to fail. I teach the life. The odd thing is most of the things that stop an inexperienced writer are so far from the truth as to be nearly beside the point.
When you feel global doubt about your talent, that IS your talent. People who have no talent don’t have any doubt.” –Richard Bausch,
from Off the Page: Writers talk about Beginnings, Endings and Everything in Between.
Interestingly, resonance is a principle or common thread weaving through many branches of physics. Resonance causes an object to move or sway back and forth or up and down. This type of motion, oscillation, can be seen when you pluck the strings of a cello or guitar and the string vibrates, or in the motion of a swing, hammock, or teeter totter. However, sometimes this movement cannot be seen without measuring instruments and when too much oscillation happens it can shatter an object like glass shatters under duress.
Here’s an example from Hemingway, the maestro of brevity and hard, flashing sentences, the unapologetic resonance of a masculine voice. He limits description to the most necessary and uses staccato rhythms for effect. It is the opening of A Farewell to Arms: “IN the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of the river there were pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was clear and swiftly moving and blue in the channels. Troops went by the house and down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the trees too were dusty and the leaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along the road and the dust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the soldiers marching and afterwards the road bare and white except for the leaves.”
Here’s another example of resonance from James Crumley in his short story Hostages. This opening sets up the inciting incident, introduces the reader to a time and place, but does so much more: It echoes with the despair of the era. “Between the hammer of the midwestern sun and the relentless sweep of the bone-dry wind, the small town of Wheatshocker seemed crushed flat and just about to blow across the plains. Long billows of dust filled the empty streets like strings of fog. Male dogs learned to squat or leaned against withered fence posts so the wind wouldn’t blow them over when they lifted their legs to pee. The piss dried instantly on the sere dirt, then blew away before the dogs finished. Shadows as black as tar huddled protectively in the shallow dunes that lined the few buildings left on the main street. Most of the windowfronts were as empty as a fool’s laugh, while those with glass were etched in formless shapes by the sharp, ghostly wind. The red bricks of the Farmers Band and Trust had faded to a pallid pink, held in place by desiccated, crumbling mortar. A ‘32 Ford sedan idled in the bank’s alley, as dusty as the rest of the heaps parked in front of the bank. A humpbacked man as small as a child sat behind the wheel, smoking a ready-roll. Only a pro would have noticed the low chortle of the reground cam in his engine. Nothing moved down the street but a mismatched team of mules slowly pulling a wagon with a large Negro in overalls and a canvas-covered bed.”
Welcome to my website.I’ve been moving this past month and since I work at home, the boxes need to be unpacked, the stapler and files and notebooks located before I can completly settle in and return to my routine. Meanwhile, I’ve got great workshops and sessions planned for Fall 2011. So please check out my upcoming sessions and stop back for updates, columns, interviews and such. Hope hope you’re all enjoying summer and writing under a blue, blue sky.
