There, I’ve said it…right there in the title of this blog entry–Christmas songs make me cry. I sit at the piano and play a stirring rendition of O Holy Night and I bawl like a baby. I hear Do You Hear What I Hear on the car radio–even that cheesy Whitney Houston version–and I’m bound to get to wherever I’m going with tear-streaked makeup. And I’m an agnostic. I don’t believe that Jesus was the son of God any more than I believe that there really was a Fred Flintstone who drove a car operated on foot power. So why the reaction to songs that are clearly Christian?

The honest truth is that I love the Nativity story. I was raised Christian, so I grew up believing that an angel appeared to some frightened shepherds and bid them go to Bethlehem and take a knee so as to properly worship the newborn king. I have always loved the idea of the baby Jesus asleep in the manger while Mary and Joseph and even the stable animals watched on in love and awe. I am intimately, achingly familiar with the story of three wisemen traveling a great distance, following a special star, to bring Jesus their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The mythology is as beautiful to me today as it was when I believed that every word of it was truth. My own evolution as a person hasn’t affected my love of a good story, and the Nativity story is as good and as touching as they get. It’s not particularly original (if you’ve studied mythology or if you’ve read up on Joseph Campbell and The Hero With a Thousand Faces you can see how this is true), but it’s still my favorite.

Many of our beloved Christmas traditions aren’t rooted in Christianity–they’re rooted in pagan traditions which the Christians later adapted as a celebration of Christ’s birth. And why not? The pagan Yule festival, celebrated on the winter solstice, included many wonderful activities such as decorating a Yule tree, hanging mistletoe and holly, ringing bells (more to drive away evil spirits and push back the gloomy Winter darkness in the Northern Hemisphere than to “make a joyful noise,” but still), singing songs, feasting and giving gifts. But the most profound thing, at least to me, is the reason for the celebration; and that reason is the same across many cultures and religions–light.

The pagans celebrated (and neo-pagans still do celebrate) the return of light to the earth at Yuletide. The winter solstice marks the longest, darkest night of the year. It is indeed a night to chase away the shadows and ward off what might be perceived as looming there, unseen. It is the perfect night for ringing out the bells and lighting candles and Yule log fires. It’s a time to celebrate because although the night of December 21 (or thereabout, depending on the solar calendar) will be long and bleak it marks the turn of the tide. After the solstice the days gradually lengthen and the light returns. Each progressive day grows a little bit longer, and by early Spring we start to notice that it’s not so dark. The dark, cold winter has done its work–helping plants through necessary dormant stages and, in some parts of the world, insulating the earth with winter’s white blanket–but the sun will warm us again, and life will renew itself as it always does.

Pagans celebrate the returning light of the solstice. Christians celebrate Christ, the Light of the World. Jews celebrate Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights. Across many cultural boundaries, light is a recurring theme, symbolizing hope and the promise of rebirth. I can think of nothing more profoundly beautiful than the many different stories used to spread that promise and germinate that seed of hope.

And that’s why I cry when children light candles and stand in the cold singing Silent Night. It amazes me to see that no matter how different we are, under the surface our stories are much the same, and our needs resonate with one another. We all need light. We all need hope.

I don’t know how my husband manages to watch CNN Headline News. I almost always seem to find something in their newscasts that drives me nuts. If it isn’t the way the simpering newscasters attempt to pull off a look of sympathy after showing a gut-wrenching news clip it’s that they seem to lack a quality I find integral to broadcast journalists–the ability to articulate; to turn thoughts to words quickly when not reading off a teleprompter.

Today I heard a CNN newscaster, talking about the California wildfires, say that, “the damages have caused billions of damages.” Now, I might write that off as a slip of the tongue, but that sort of slip happens so often on CNN, particularly during the daytime Headline News broadcasts.

What I found more annoying occurred when one newscaster was discussing CNN’s bulletin board feature with another. Newscaster #1, presiding over the bulletin board, had just read a comment from a man who had lost his home to the wildfires and watched his memories go up in flames. With a heartfelt look, Newscaster #2, the anchor, commented that “talking about this must be cathargic for people.”

Cathargic? You mean cathartic, sweetheart. Apparently you were absent the day your class learned that little vocabulary word in high school English, huh?

Just for kicks, I Googled “cathargic” and came up with 620 results. Almost every time I saw cathargic used it was clear from the context that the author meant cathartic. None of the results I found were from what I would consider intelligent sources, although one was a comment in a blog from someone who said he’d discovered that cathargic meant “causes evacuation of the bowels.” I found no such thing (because no matter how hard one tries, apparently cathargic is still not a word), although cathartic means “purging,” and it can be used to refer to something with a strong laxative effect. Either way I like the comedic value in this definition.

Imagine the bubble-headed newscaster:

“Talking about the fires must be cathargic for people. I mean, because first you say, ‘Holy shit, my house is on fire!’…and then you do it!” (With apologies to Bill Cosby, who used that joke in another context.)

Now, I’m no genius and I certainly do not possess perfect grammar skills or a vast vocabulary, but I do expect the people who deliver my news to be articulate and to use real words instead of made up ones.

I guess I’ve seen Broadcast News too many times.

We attended the 13th Annual GPA-Wisconsin Gala Greyhound Gathering today. It’s both a fundraiser for GPA and reunion for greyhound adoptees. It was incredibly fun (though tiring, as the sacked dogs beside me will testify).

I took this video of the group roo event. My husband Peter introduced the hounds, and our greyhound Quin (who got a bit of stage fright, I think) and our GPA friend Shawn’s little girl PeeWee (the very vocal diva) started the roo. If you’re interested, watch and see several dozen greyhounds singing their hearts out. It’s kind of like the Twilight Bark in 101 Dalmatians…except without the dalmatians and without the twilight.

It’s Quin’s birthday, and I made a little video montage to celebrate. I can’t seem to embed it here, so a link will have to do.

And yes, I know how impossibly goofy making a video for a dog’s birthday is. Thanks for noticing.

Dove is doing some really cool things with its Campaign for Real Beauty. This one’s apparently a commercial from the UK, but I believe the same one is running in the US. (I haven’t seen it; but then I don’t watch much TV.) We’re bombarded daily with cultural pressure to be perfect, and the beauty industry is a key player. How many times a day do we see or hear ads that tell us we have to have flawless skin, no lines or wrinkles, vibrant hair color, long lush lashes, and nary a ripple of cellulite or anything less than washboard abs?

What would our world be like if there was no “beauty industry,” and instead there was a “healthy lifestyle industry?” What if advertisements urged us to make healthy choices instead of showing us how to correct the damage our unhealthy choices have done? I’ll bet I see dozens of ads for weight loss products to every one ad that encourages me to eat a balanced diet and get more exercise, and dozens of ads for anti-aging products to every one that tells me to eat foods rich in antioxidants and use sunblock.

Sad, isn’t it?

Which comes first, the character or the plot? For me, that’s an easy question to answer. There are so many characters roaming around inside my head that I would have to admit characters are my first love in fiction writing. And from my characters, my plot evolves. All I need to do is put my characters in difficult situations and watch them work their way out and—voila!—instant plot.

Even so, many writers love their characters a little too much; a writing crime of which I’ve certainly been guilty. It’s painful to watch a character you’ve developed, someone you feel a genuine fondness for, suffer. Yet your characters have to run into some trouble if you’re going to tell a good story. And above all, they must be “human”—they’ve got to have flaws.

Give your characters flaws, especially flaws that keep them from reaching a goal that is pivotal to your plot, and watch the sparks fly. We can think of many examples of such conflicts:

• A teacher whose timid nature prevents her from disciplining her class
• A teenager who stutters and is so self-conscious he drives away potential friends with his caustic attitude
• A grown man who can’t stop lying, and loses many a friend and lover when his lies are uncovered

All these characters will have some redeeming traits. While we don’t necessarily need to love them, we do need to identify with them somehow, and we do need to care about what happens to them, or we won’t continue reading. But it’s the flaws that make the character multi-dimensional.

You’ve probably practiced writing character sketches. They’re those little outlines writers often make as a sort of roadmap to their character. They often look something like this:

Name: Jane Doe
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Auburn, wavy, shoulder-length
Height: 5’ 8”
Build: Slender
Clothes: Casual. Jeans, t-shirts, tank tops…

While it’s nice to have that sort of perspective on your character, it’s far better to know your character beyond her vital statistics. I’m going to encourage you to dig deeper. Really get to know your character before you start writing about her.

I don’t outline or sketch my characters, and you might find it useful to skip that archaic method, too. I write my character sketches as though I’m giving a description of someone I’m getting to know, someone I care about. A character sketch I created for one protagonist, named Maddie, looked something like this:

Her hands are tiny, fragile, with bird-like bones. She is careless about keeping her nails manicured, but they grow long and perfect nonetheless. She likes her hands–even holds then up occasionally to admire them.

She feels a little like “white trash”–under-educated, even though she’s sharply intelligent and hungry for knowledge, as evidenced by the pile of books beside her bed. She wishes for a high IQ, and the means to talk brilliantly on subjects she feels she should know more about, like current events and politics.

Her long black hair hangs in ringlet curls that sproing like bedsprings when she rakes them with her fingers.

Here eyes are the color of good, dark rum.

She wears clothes that reveal her cleavage–which is less intentional than accidental. She’s always a little surprised when men take an interest in her.

She’ll strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger in line at the grocery store, but she’s afraid to socialize at parties, or talk to people she’s expected to talk to, for fear she’ll say something foolish or unintelligent.

She eats voraciously, but stays slender anyhow. Like a hummingbird, she’s always flitting around, unable to sit still. People are stunned by her ravenous consumption of food–without a shred of self-consciousness.

She’s hesitant with men–unsure what to say to them. She’s hopelessly inept at flirting, which makes many men believe she’s a little odd.

When she sits, it’s often with her legs crossed, one leg dangling over the other and in constant, jittery motion. When she does this in heels, she often jangles her shoe right off her foot. She often slouches, both when seated and when she walks. If she would stand tall she would be quite beautiful.

Does Maddie have flaws? You bet. She has a confidence problem. Will Maddie’s lack of self-esteem keep her struggling to reach some important goal? Of course! That’s part of plotting through characterization.

Character sketches should be organic works-in-progress that grow as your character grows.

TRY THIS!

You’ve seen my character sketch; now it’s your turn. Write a character sketch. Pick a person who’s been inside your head. Think of a character that intrigues you, somebody you won’t be able to stop writing about. Your goal is to find yourself hopelessly fascinated with this person, because then, perhaps your readers will be, too.

Remember to make your outline more like a conversational description and less like a WANTED poster hanging on a post office wall–tell us about your character as though you’re giving us a very thorough (not to mention personal) introduction. And don’t leave out the flaws! Your character has to have some sort of glitch. If perfect people don’t exist in real life, they certainly can’t exist in fiction.

How long should your sketch be? Write until you run out of things to say about your character. (And don’t forget to give your character a name!) Don’t worry about length so much as content. Read and reread your sketch. You may find you’ve written in some traits that, upon careful scrutiny, don’t exactly fit with the rest of your sketch. If anything looks out of place after you’ve finished, take it out. Don’t get too caught up in quirky personality traits and keep them in your sketch just because they’re “interesting.” If they don’t fit your character, discard them. Be ruthless. And most of all, have fun!

Art source: Mark-Langley.com

Greyhound owners are all too familiar with a little something we call “counter surfing.” This act of thievery occurs when a tall greyhound sees something edible on a kitchen table or counter and desire, not to mention a bottomless pit of a stomach, overcomes reason and training.

Last night I was preparing a quick meal of kielbasa and pasta salad. I plopped the kielbasa, still steaming, on the table and went to get the rest of the meal set out. When I turned back to the table, there was my precious little greyhound girl with her mouth poised over the sausage.

I barked a warning, “Elll-aaah…” and she stopped dead, mouth open but not touching her intended prey. She was completely frozen in mid-snatch.

Trying not to laugh, I said, “Just what do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

Body still frozen, her eyes turned toward me and I could almost hear her thinking, Aw, crap. BUS-ted!

No snausage for you, Ella girl.

felt, looked, seemed…

They’re the most basic of verbs–the ones used to identify a state of being. We sometimes need them in our writing, and a story without them might well be florid and over-the-top. But an excess of weak verbs sucks the energy from a story. A good writer learns to stalk those weak verbs like prey and cull them from the literary herd.

How can you identify weak verbs without memorizing a list? It’s pretty simple. Weak verbs are those that don’t stand up well in a sentence without support. Take the modifier away from “The boy seemed hostile ” and you have “The boy seemed.” “The boy seemed” is still a sentence, but it describes a kid who simply…exists. “He felt sad” becomes “He felt.” Again, still a sentence, but what does it tell us?

And while we’re talking about telling, there’s a temptation that weak verbs lead us writers into–the temptation to simply tell our readers how our characters feel or act instead of painting a word picture for them:

She felt lonely.
He seemed upset.
The puppy looked terrified.
The child seemed friendly.

In each of those sentences the writer uses a weak verb to tell his readers something. Painting a word picture may take longer, but the results are far more satisfying, allowing the reader to make an emotional connection:

She felt lonely.

becomes…

She curled herself into a comma shape on the couch, her hand resting on the phone receiver, and stared at the TV screen.

You may use more (perhaps many more) than one sentence to show the reader your character’s loneliness. Your goal is not to tell the reader that your character felt alone but to show the reader a lonely character and make them feel her loneliness, too.

I have a little trick for getting around weak and “telling” verbs in my writing: I pretend I’m making a movie. Let’s say that my lonely character’s name is Mary. If I’m making a movie about lonely Mary, I likely won’t have a narrator pop into the scene to say, “Mary felt lonely.” I’m going to have to show Mary in the act of being lonely and let the viewers infer from her actions that she feels utterly alone in the world. Screenwriters don’t have the luxury of telling an audience what a character is feeling–they have to demonstrate it. Good fiction writers don’t have that luxury either. Not if they want their fiction read, at least.

Now, don’t get me wrong–I’m not saying that these verbs don’t have a place in your writing or that you need to eliminate them at all cost. Occasionally you’ll find you need them. But good writers are aware of weak verbs and how they affect a fictional story (or even non-fiction, for that matter). When you’re working on a rewrite and you stumble across one of the many weak verbs you’ll likely find, just take the time to ask yourself, “Should I change this wimpy verb?” If the verb needs to go, then take that sucker down and rewrite something more powerful. And don’t feel bad about it; that little verb was not strong to begin with, and never would have been. Culling the weak is nature’s way, and it’s the writer’s way, too.

I love StumbleUpon. While it turns up a lot of inane (though still sometimes funny) gobbledygook, nearly just as often I come across something that makes me think. Robert J. Samuelson’s Newsweek article, “The Sad Fate of the Comma,” was one such thing. While punctuation articles don’t normally intrigue me–anyone who knows me and my writing knows that my understanding of grammar is more practical than theoretical–this one caught my eye because it was not only engaging and well-written, but a treatise on modern life. About the disappearance of the comma from today’s writing Samuelson said:

If all this involved only grammar, I might let it lie. But the comma’s sad fate is, I think, a metaphor for something larger: how we deal with the frantic, can’t-wait-a-minute nature of modern life. The comma is, after all, a small sign that flashes PAUSE. It tells the reader to slow down, think a bit, and then move on. We don’t have time for that. No pauses allowed. In this sense, the comma’s fading popularity is also social commentary.

Talk about the hectic pace of American life reminds me of a little anecdote where an American businessman in Mexico meets a native fisherman who’s bringing in his small tuna catch for the day. The American asks the man why he doesn’t spend more time on the water catching more fish. After all, what on earth could he possibly be doing with all his extra time? The Mexican tells him that he sleeps in late, fishes a little, plays with his children, takes a siesta with his wife, and then spends the evenings sipping wine and playing guitar with his amigos. The American scoffs and advises him that if he’d just put in more hours catching fish he could cut out the middleman, sell directly to the processor, and eventually even open his own cannery where he would control the product, the processing, and the distribution. “You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village,” he says, “and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles, and eventually New York City where you would run your expanding enterprise.”

“How long would this take, senor?” asks the fisherman.

“Oh, 15 or 20 years,” says the businessman. “But that’s not the best part! When the time is right you announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions!”

“Millions?” says the wide-eyed Mexican. “But then what, senor?”

“Then,” says the businessman, “You could retire to a coastal fishing village where you could sleep in late, fish a little, play with your grandchildren, take a siesta with your wife, and spend the evenings sipping wine and playing guitar with your friends.”

I think the pace of my own life is probably just right. I do sleep in late, and I’ve been known to take a siesta now and then. Most of the time I let my body’s natural rhythm control when I wake up and when I go to bed. But I’ve certainly been known to multitask (it’s the American way, after all), and I’ve certainly felt the seductive pull, the suction created by the frenetic whirlwind pace so many Americans embrace. I feel guilt-ridden and ashamed because I’m not doing a million different things at once. On top of my work–on top of doing a job that I love, I might add–I’m not volunteering and joining and running frantically to and fro with a cell phone pressed to my ear and a laptop strapped over my shoulder. What must I be missing!

But I’ve taught myself to be what most Americans would probably consider chronically lazy. I’m a slacker, folks, and I make no apologies. (Well, yes I do. And excuses, too. But not today; not here.) I make a decent income as a writer while my husband contributes the bulk of our family income through his job as an IT manager. If needs be, I could survive on my income without the added bonus of his (which is easily twice what I make). I’d have to simplify…a lot. Still, I could probably do it. And I wouldn’t mind it, either.

Not that I’m considering ditching my husband any time soon.

So there you have it, folks–I’m a human comma. I’m a pause that beckons, “Hey, slow down a moment; stop and think.” And you’ll likely never see me vow to do more and make my life any busier than it is. I want to live easy and enjoy my husband, kids, dogs and siestas right now. Care to join my little society of lazy Americans? Together we can utterly fail at keeping up with the feverish pace of the American lifestyle.

Originally published in Fiction Fix Newsletter, November, 2001

• What does my character desire most, and what is he willing to do to get it?
• What am I trying to say with this story?

The M&Ms: Motivation and Meaning

Answering the first question–what does my character desire?–provides the fuel for your story. Motivation is the catalyst that sets events in motion. Your character wants something, and your story will be about how he overcomes a series of trials in order to achieve (or fail to achieve–stories don’t have to have positive outcomes, only satisfying ones) his goals. Without a motivated character, your story is just an anecdote.

Meaning–the question of what you’re trying to say with your story–is the difference between a memorable story and a forgettable one. Meaning provides texture, depth and richness. Stories that detail events, without fulfilling the need for deeper meaning, seem hollow. Let’s say you wrote a story about a Jewish man’s struggles during World War II. You might say your story is about a man who survived the holocaust, and that may well be true, but if your story has meaning, it would also be about the power of perseverance, or the triumph of good over evil.

Without motivation and meaning you risk writing anecdotes–narratives about events and circumstances instead of people and their desires. While anecdotes may be fun to retell at parties, they don’t make for resonant, memorable fiction. Do you want to keep crafting “unpublished items?”

I didn’t think so.

© 2001, Karen Hertzberg