There’s been a group of characters in my head for about ten years, patiently waiting to tell their story. I’m not sure why they’ve chosen me, the poster child for procrastinators, but it appears their persistence has worn me down. Their voices are louder, more insistent. They won’t be put off anymore by my “aw shucks” shuffle of false humility and claims that I’m too old, I don’t have time, I don’t know how. They’re totally insensitive to my fears. What I hear ringing in my ears is their chorus of “Just Do It.” Coincidence? I think not. A good friend told me years ago that sometimes we speak for our own good and we say what we most need to hear. “Start, one letter at a time, one word at a time, Just Do It.” So...
The characters have already let me know that I work for them or at least I’m going to represent them. I don’t want to let myself down again and stop before I’ve started. I’m terrified of losing control. (Hello Inner Critic and I see you’ve brought my self-doubt with you.) I don’t notice details, the little things that make a character unique, that anchor them in a particular place and time. And how can I tell a good story without details???
One of my favorite authors, Robert McCammon not only takes an interest in detail but uses words like a master artist uses color. In Boy’s Life, http://books.simonandschuster.com/Boy's-Life/Robert-McCammon/9781442349223you don’t just see a rug, you see through the “yellow lamplight” an “Indian rug red as Cochise’s blood.” You hear the “space heater rumbling.” You notice that his “shelves go on for miles and miles” piled high with “stacks of hundreds of comic books - Green Lantern, Batman, Aquaman and dozens of issues of Boy’s Life magazine.” He doesn’t just have an old Civil War relic, he has a “Civil War button that fell from a butternut uniform when the storm swept Shiloh.” When you leave those two opening paragraphs, you know this boy well enough to get him the perfect birthday present. You also can imagine just where it will go in his room. The reader has been treated to a lush, seven course feast rich with language that won’t be soon forgotten. I don’t want to be Robert McCammon. I just long to use language with the skill and artistry that he does.
I do notice, I just notice differently. I may draw a blank when asked to describe what the Seventh Day Adventist at my door was wearing but I can tell you that she had experienced enough doors slamming in her face that her eyes avoided mine. I can tell you that she used the literature she carried to keep me at a distance and I can tell you that her voice softened when I asked her in. I may not be able to describe the details of a room so vividly that you can feel the stitching on a quilt or smell the scent of dying roses but I can capture the fear in a room, the longing in a touch and the truth in a tangle of words. I know how it feels to weave words into a collage of images that opens yesterday into today and beyond.
Robert McCammon is a breadcrumb on my journey, a reminder of all that’s possible when I let go and trust my talent. I think it’s time to stop writing about writing and write.
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