Sarah Black's Blog: Book Report, page 16
January 25, 2012
Let me try this again
It's Pub Day! How does an errant pinkie (before coffee)cause me to hit the publish button?
Marlowe's Ghost is out today, and I hope everyone likes it!
Marlowe's Ghost is out today, and I hope everyone likes it!
January 22, 2012
Using dialogue to show character
Dialogue strategies to show character
I was in Taos yesterday, scouting out locations for the new story, (and also scouting out a location for my retirement.) The downtown bookstore, Moby Dickens, was a treasure. I got a book on writing and hiking called The Trail Writer’s Guide by Cinny Green.
Hiking and writing are just about my two favorite things. Last night I started reading the book and came across some interesting dialogue strategies. The first was this:
A character talks one way and acts another. This shows various sides of a person rather than just his public face. Create a convivial conversation between you and your companion as you leave the trailhead. Show the excitement, the thrill of beginning a new adventure. Reveal a nugget of disagreement.
The second was this: Characters talk but don’t listen to each other. They reveal much about their personalities. The conversation can become a turning point in the plot if the lack of listening results in rising action or conflict. Come to a junction in the trail. Unfold a dialogue in which one person wants to go north and one wants to go east.
This exercise really caused me to sit up and take notice. In the last story I was writing, (Marlowe’s Ghost) I felt there was a lack of conflict between the characters because they would never argue. And they didn’t argue because I hate listening to people argue. A couple of times one of the characters, Tom, (the sweet one,) just burst out with something he had obviously been keeping in and started an argument. I thought at the time it was a sad state of affairs when the characters could not talk freely because their writer didn’t want to listen to them argue! But when I let the argument proceed, some important sources of conflict came out into the open.
The two writing exercises above I think are very good for letting characters start an argument, which can lead to beautiful nuggets of conflict being brought into the open. In the new story, I have a character (Johnny) who thinks out loud, much in the way I do. He talks through ideas. I’m going to try to use the second strategy and have his friend, Raine, get annoyed he is not being listened to. Raine is a bit spoiled and is used to the men he is with paying attention to him. This small character flaw will be revealed by their conversation.
I was very excited about this writing book, and wanted to share this bit with you lovely writers.
Taos is my sort of place, as evidenced by the number of hybrid vehicles with bumper stickers. We were out looking at the earthships and were passed by a Subaru flying a Free Tibet sticker, and the next pickup had Make Coffee, Not War, on the bumper. I told the kid we needed to start saving up for our earthship immediately!
I was in Taos yesterday, scouting out locations for the new story, (and also scouting out a location for my retirement.) The downtown bookstore, Moby Dickens, was a treasure. I got a book on writing and hiking called The Trail Writer’s Guide by Cinny Green.
Hiking and writing are just about my two favorite things. Last night I started reading the book and came across some interesting dialogue strategies. The first was this:
A character talks one way and acts another. This shows various sides of a person rather than just his public face. Create a convivial conversation between you and your companion as you leave the trailhead. Show the excitement, the thrill of beginning a new adventure. Reveal a nugget of disagreement.
The second was this: Characters talk but don’t listen to each other. They reveal much about their personalities. The conversation can become a turning point in the plot if the lack of listening results in rising action or conflict. Come to a junction in the trail. Unfold a dialogue in which one person wants to go north and one wants to go east.
This exercise really caused me to sit up and take notice. In the last story I was writing, (Marlowe’s Ghost) I felt there was a lack of conflict between the characters because they would never argue. And they didn’t argue because I hate listening to people argue. A couple of times one of the characters, Tom, (the sweet one,) just burst out with something he had obviously been keeping in and started an argument. I thought at the time it was a sad state of affairs when the characters could not talk freely because their writer didn’t want to listen to them argue! But when I let the argument proceed, some important sources of conflict came out into the open.
The two writing exercises above I think are very good for letting characters start an argument, which can lead to beautiful nuggets of conflict being brought into the open. In the new story, I have a character (Johnny) who thinks out loud, much in the way I do. He talks through ideas. I’m going to try to use the second strategy and have his friend, Raine, get annoyed he is not being listened to. Raine is a bit spoiled and is used to the men he is with paying attention to him. This small character flaw will be revealed by their conversation.
I was very excited about this writing book, and wanted to share this bit with you lovely writers.
Taos is my sort of place, as evidenced by the number of hybrid vehicles with bumper stickers. We were out looking at the earthships and were passed by a Subaru flying a Free Tibet sticker, and the next pickup had Make Coffee, Not War, on the bumper. I told the kid we needed to start saving up for our earthship immediately!
January 15, 2012
excerpt- Marlowe's Ghost
He was a year out of the Corps, finishing up a degree in classical history at George Mason. Will thought he might go to law school since he felt like a cynical asshole all the time. Law seemed to be the proper career for a person with his outlook on life. His mother had suggested he might want to talk to someone at the VA. He’d assured her it wasn’t PTSD, just a bad mood that had lasted three years. He kept forgetting to schedule the LSAT, though, and when he should have been doing research and filling out applications, he found himself roaming the city with a bag full of toys, planning a little street art. So he was ripe for it when one of his professors pulled him into his office. “William, I’ve got a problem.”
“What’s the matter, Dr. Jones? You don’t have another flat tire, do you?” Will wasn’t sure how a grown man with a PhD and a head full of gray hair had managed to not learn how to change a flat, but he had spotted him in a downpour, wringing his hands and trying to figure out which end of the jack was up.
“No, it’s a bit more serious this time.” His office was crowded with overflowing bookshelves, the only visitor’s chair holding a pile of files in primary colors. “Just move those, William. I need to tell you a story.”
Will put the files on the floor, sat down. “What’s up?”
Dr. Jones stared out the window, his hands on his hips. “I have a nephew. Did I tell you? His name is Tom. My older brother’s son. He’s a gentle boy, not really strong. He’s been working on his PhD in Elizabethan literature.”
“Here?”
“He’s at Oxford.” Dr. Jones pulled his desk chair around and sat. “So what happened is that last year, late in the summer, he got sick. It was totally unexpected, but he had leukemia. It seemed to come like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky. Neither of us really knew how to handle it. He and I, we’re the only family we have left now.”
“He went to a doctor, right?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I don’t mean we didn’t know what to do to get him medical care. We didn’t know how to handle the emotional consequences. The threat. The unexpected mortal nature of the condition. I was overprotective, I’m afraid, and Tom became… somewhat eccentric. More so than his usual, and he was always an original boy.”
Will raised his eyebrows.
“I remembered you had been a Marine. You’ve got a Purple Heart, correct? I saw the tag on your motorcycle. That made me think you might have a better understanding of the way near-death changes a person. That you might understand what he’s going through.”
“Okay.” Will was remembering the way this particular professor liked to lay extensive groundwork before he got into the meat of a lecture.
“The oncologist told Tom his leukemia was in remission about a month ago, and he was free to continue his studies, so he went off to England to work on his dissertation. And that’s when the… when the strange….”
“What happened?”
“He started to see ghosts. Not just random ghosts, like ghosts on the street. Not like Casper. He’s talking to the ghost of Christopher Marlowe. And that’s not even the worst part.”
Will opened his mouth to speak, realized he didn’t have any idea what to say, and closed it again.
“He’s become convinced after talking to Marlowe’s ghost that Kit was not killed in Deptford in 1593, but that he escaped and went to live in Germany.” Dr. Jones stood up, began an agitated pacing. “William, do you understand my concerns? If he begins to spout off crackpot theories about Christopher Marlowe, his academic career will be in ruins before he’s even granted his degree. I mean, these conspiracy theorists are the laughingstock of the academic world!”
“Wait a minute, I’ve heard about this. Some people say Christopher Marlowe faked his death and he was really Shakespeare or something, right?”
“There’re a hundred theories. That is the stupidest of them all. William, I’m afraid this belief of his is somehow rooted in his leukemia. It’s like he has some emotional trauma from being so ill, and it’s finding expression in this—” He waved his hands. “—this ghost obsession.”
Will waited. He still wasn’t sure what Dr. Jones wanted.
“Do you understand my concern? You see how this could happen?”
“Yes. What do you want me to do?”
“I want him at home, where I can care for him properly. I’ll pay for the plane ticket and give you money for expenses. You aren’t enrolled in any classes this summer. I want you to go to England and bring him home. Would you consider doing me this favor?”
Will understood better than most how near-death experiences changed a person. Some people talked to Christopher Marlowe’s ghost, some people twisted Gumby and his little horse Pokey into obscene positions and put a photograph of the outrage on the Internet. What was the big deal? You just found a way to live, shouldered the burden, and moved on. Carried it around with you like a rucksack full of rocks. He rubbed the scar tissue that stretched down his right arm.
So Tom Jones had leukemia? He was better now, thanks to his good health insurance and his overprotective uncle, and he was off at Oxford writing his dissertation. Did he realize how lucky he was? He hadn’t gone into the military, and gone to war, so he had a way to pay for his college. There were a million, a billion people in the world who’d had a rougher life. Will thought Dr. Jones and his nephew Tom, that gentle boy, could use a little toughening up. America was making people soft as taffy on a hot summer sidewalk. And taffy was annoying when it stuck to your shoe.
He woke the next morning from a dream of England in June, the sky bright, air sweet as cherry blossoms, as cotton candy. He was lying in an English garden in Deptford, the fragrant, old-fashioned roses over his head like the cavorting fat pink bottoms of women in French paintings. There was a man lying next to him in the grass. He’d raised Will’s hand to his lips.
He should go to England. Why not? Was anything left of Wordsworth’s daffodils? There would be gardens, nonetheless. And the British Museum, with half the Parthenon on display. He would go, collect the gentle boy, and bring him home. See the sights and smell some English roses.
Coming January 25, 2012 from Dreamspinner
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
“What’s the matter, Dr. Jones? You don’t have another flat tire, do you?” Will wasn’t sure how a grown man with a PhD and a head full of gray hair had managed to not learn how to change a flat, but he had spotted him in a downpour, wringing his hands and trying to figure out which end of the jack was up.
“No, it’s a bit more serious this time.” His office was crowded with overflowing bookshelves, the only visitor’s chair holding a pile of files in primary colors. “Just move those, William. I need to tell you a story.”
Will put the files on the floor, sat down. “What’s up?”
Dr. Jones stared out the window, his hands on his hips. “I have a nephew. Did I tell you? His name is Tom. My older brother’s son. He’s a gentle boy, not really strong. He’s been working on his PhD in Elizabethan literature.”
“Here?”
“He’s at Oxford.” Dr. Jones pulled his desk chair around and sat. “So what happened is that last year, late in the summer, he got sick. It was totally unexpected, but he had leukemia. It seemed to come like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky. Neither of us really knew how to handle it. He and I, we’re the only family we have left now.”
“He went to a doctor, right?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I don’t mean we didn’t know what to do to get him medical care. We didn’t know how to handle the emotional consequences. The threat. The unexpected mortal nature of the condition. I was overprotective, I’m afraid, and Tom became… somewhat eccentric. More so than his usual, and he was always an original boy.”
Will raised his eyebrows.
“I remembered you had been a Marine. You’ve got a Purple Heart, correct? I saw the tag on your motorcycle. That made me think you might have a better understanding of the way near-death changes a person. That you might understand what he’s going through.”
“Okay.” Will was remembering the way this particular professor liked to lay extensive groundwork before he got into the meat of a lecture.
“The oncologist told Tom his leukemia was in remission about a month ago, and he was free to continue his studies, so he went off to England to work on his dissertation. And that’s when the… when the strange….”
“What happened?”
“He started to see ghosts. Not just random ghosts, like ghosts on the street. Not like Casper. He’s talking to the ghost of Christopher Marlowe. And that’s not even the worst part.”
Will opened his mouth to speak, realized he didn’t have any idea what to say, and closed it again.
“He’s become convinced after talking to Marlowe’s ghost that Kit was not killed in Deptford in 1593, but that he escaped and went to live in Germany.” Dr. Jones stood up, began an agitated pacing. “William, do you understand my concerns? If he begins to spout off crackpot theories about Christopher Marlowe, his academic career will be in ruins before he’s even granted his degree. I mean, these conspiracy theorists are the laughingstock of the academic world!”
“Wait a minute, I’ve heard about this. Some people say Christopher Marlowe faked his death and he was really Shakespeare or something, right?”
“There’re a hundred theories. That is the stupidest of them all. William, I’m afraid this belief of his is somehow rooted in his leukemia. It’s like he has some emotional trauma from being so ill, and it’s finding expression in this—” He waved his hands. “—this ghost obsession.”
Will waited. He still wasn’t sure what Dr. Jones wanted.
“Do you understand my concern? You see how this could happen?”
“Yes. What do you want me to do?”
“I want him at home, where I can care for him properly. I’ll pay for the plane ticket and give you money for expenses. You aren’t enrolled in any classes this summer. I want you to go to England and bring him home. Would you consider doing me this favor?”
Will understood better than most how near-death experiences changed a person. Some people talked to Christopher Marlowe’s ghost, some people twisted Gumby and his little horse Pokey into obscene positions and put a photograph of the outrage on the Internet. What was the big deal? You just found a way to live, shouldered the burden, and moved on. Carried it around with you like a rucksack full of rocks. He rubbed the scar tissue that stretched down his right arm.
So Tom Jones had leukemia? He was better now, thanks to his good health insurance and his overprotective uncle, and he was off at Oxford writing his dissertation. Did he realize how lucky he was? He hadn’t gone into the military, and gone to war, so he had a way to pay for his college. There were a million, a billion people in the world who’d had a rougher life. Will thought Dr. Jones and his nephew Tom, that gentle boy, could use a little toughening up. America was making people soft as taffy on a hot summer sidewalk. And taffy was annoying when it stuck to your shoe.
He woke the next morning from a dream of England in June, the sky bright, air sweet as cherry blossoms, as cotton candy. He was lying in an English garden in Deptford, the fragrant, old-fashioned roses over his head like the cavorting fat pink bottoms of women in French paintings. There was a man lying next to him in the grass. He’d raised Will’s hand to his lips.
He should go to England. Why not? Was anything left of Wordsworth’s daffodils? There would be gardens, nonetheless. And the British Museum, with half the Parthenon on display. He would go, collect the gentle boy, and bring him home. See the sights and smell some English roses.
Coming January 25, 2012 from Dreamspinner
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
January 6, 2012
Coming of Age
Coming of Age
I love the idea of the coming of age novel, because deciding to grow up, and the trauma that results, makes for some fine human conflict. It’s a natural internal and external conflict. You don’t need men with guns leaping out of the alley when you’re dealing with growing up.
I am also living with a son who is 19, and is taking his time. Like many young men today, he is giving this whole coming of age thing plenty of time to mature. He isn’t entirely sure it’s not some trick to turn his bedroom into a sewing room. I’m watching his struggles and thinking about what it means to come of age.
I had thought this was a teen issue, and for gay romance, a coming out issue. That may be, and many of the classic coming of age novels have teen protagonists and in our genre deal with coming out. But we never stop growing up. We never stop learning the lessons life teaches us. My favorite coming of age novel, A Portrait of a Lady by Henry James, deals with the lessons we learn when we are willful and stubborn and we don’t know as much as we think we do. I think this is the true coming of age, when we screw up as adults for the first time, and then decide what we’re going to do then.
I think love and war are the great crucibles for young adults- those things that either transform us into steel or crush us underfoot. Everything else we can leave behind us. For me, a good coming of age story is a young man wrestling with these things, and deciding who he is going to be for the rest of his life.
My new story, Marlowe’s Ghost, is my attempt at a coming of age story. I set the story in England and Italy, not in imitation of the great James novel, but because some of my own coming of age took place in these two countries. Unlike James, though, I did not leave the end for the reader to figure out. The screwed-up ending of Portrait of a Lady still ticks me off these many years later.
While I was writing this story, I also became a bit obsessed with Christopher Marlowe. I will confess now that I have firmly moved into the Marlovian camp, and will debate anyone on the reasons I think Christopher Marlowe wrote the works attributed to Shakespeare. But that’s an argument for another day!
Marlowe’s Ghost is out 1/25 from Dreamspinner Press
I love the idea of the coming of age novel, because deciding to grow up, and the trauma that results, makes for some fine human conflict. It’s a natural internal and external conflict. You don’t need men with guns leaping out of the alley when you’re dealing with growing up.
I am also living with a son who is 19, and is taking his time. Like many young men today, he is giving this whole coming of age thing plenty of time to mature. He isn’t entirely sure it’s not some trick to turn his bedroom into a sewing room. I’m watching his struggles and thinking about what it means to come of age.
I had thought this was a teen issue, and for gay romance, a coming out issue. That may be, and many of the classic coming of age novels have teen protagonists and in our genre deal with coming out. But we never stop growing up. We never stop learning the lessons life teaches us. My favorite coming of age novel, A Portrait of a Lady by Henry James, deals with the lessons we learn when we are willful and stubborn and we don’t know as much as we think we do. I think this is the true coming of age, when we screw up as adults for the first time, and then decide what we’re going to do then.
I think love and war are the great crucibles for young adults- those things that either transform us into steel or crush us underfoot. Everything else we can leave behind us. For me, a good coming of age story is a young man wrestling with these things, and deciding who he is going to be for the rest of his life.
My new story, Marlowe’s Ghost, is my attempt at a coming of age story. I set the story in England and Italy, not in imitation of the great James novel, but because some of my own coming of age took place in these two countries. Unlike James, though, I did not leave the end for the reader to figure out. The screwed-up ending of Portrait of a Lady still ticks me off these many years later.
While I was writing this story, I also became a bit obsessed with Christopher Marlowe. I will confess now that I have firmly moved into the Marlovian camp, and will debate anyone on the reasons I think Christopher Marlowe wrote the works attributed to Shakespeare. But that’s an argument for another day!
Marlowe’s Ghost is out 1/25 from Dreamspinner Press
January 4, 2012
Marlowe's Ghost out 1/25- excerpt
Will unpacked his duffel bag on a park bench. Malibu Barbie was wearing a bright yellow sundress with yellow strappy sandals, and he carefully positioned pink sunglasses shaped like tiny hearts on her nose. Next was the hat, a wide-brimmed straw hat with yellow and pink ribbons that curled onto her bare shoulder. Excellent. The hat was critical, since it would keep Barbie from spotting what Mr. Potato Head, sitting next to her on the bench, was doing.
Mr. Potato Head was carrying a small cane, and he was using the tip to stealthily slide Barbie’s skirt up her tanned thigh. His face was a masterpiece of dumb lust. He didn’t see Mrs. Potato Head behind the bench, snarling, her red patent leather purse ready to descend on his head.
He photographed the scene, packed up the toys, and was out of the park and back home before the dew had dried on the sweet summer grass.
Will had started Bad Toys as a joke while he was still in Afghanistan. The unit had received a care package from a small town in Kansas. PFC Braddock and Corporal Binns had pulled everything out, looking for copies of Maxim, cookies, or microwave popcorn. The rest of the unit had watched the unpacking in disbelief. Barbie and Ken, Mr. Potato Head, GI Joe, Humpty Dumpty, a plastic bag of small green soldiers, another of cowboys and Indians. Some soft little stuffed animals from the zoo, giraffes and hippos and lions.
The plastic warriors had quickly found homes in BDU pockets, but the rest of the toys had sat in the mess tent, on the table with the silverware, staring at them with painted eyes like some bizarre raspberry blown from America. Until Will had carefully positioned Barbie kneeling on Humpty Dumpty’s face, her head thrown back in passion. Barbie was surprisingly limber. Ken and GI Joe had their own fling on top of the salad bar, tiny erections made from elbow macaroni filched from the kitchen. Will never stopped to analyze what he was doing, but from that strange beginning, Bad Toys became an Internet sensation, and Will grew the heart of an outlaw.
Mr. Potato Head was carrying a small cane, and he was using the tip to stealthily slide Barbie’s skirt up her tanned thigh. His face was a masterpiece of dumb lust. He didn’t see Mrs. Potato Head behind the bench, snarling, her red patent leather purse ready to descend on his head.
He photographed the scene, packed up the toys, and was out of the park and back home before the dew had dried on the sweet summer grass.
Will had started Bad Toys as a joke while he was still in Afghanistan. The unit had received a care package from a small town in Kansas. PFC Braddock and Corporal Binns had pulled everything out, looking for copies of Maxim, cookies, or microwave popcorn. The rest of the unit had watched the unpacking in disbelief. Barbie and Ken, Mr. Potato Head, GI Joe, Humpty Dumpty, a plastic bag of small green soldiers, another of cowboys and Indians. Some soft little stuffed animals from the zoo, giraffes and hippos and lions.
The plastic warriors had quickly found homes in BDU pockets, but the rest of the toys had sat in the mess tent, on the table with the silverware, staring at them with painted eyes like some bizarre raspberry blown from America. Until Will had carefully positioned Barbie kneeling on Humpty Dumpty’s face, her head thrown back in passion. Barbie was surprisingly limber. Ken and GI Joe had their own fling on top of the salad bar, tiny erections made from elbow macaroni filched from the kitchen. Will never stopped to analyze what he was doing, but from that strange beginning, Bad Toys became an Internet sensation, and Will grew the heart of an outlaw.
December 20, 2011
Flamingo, out tomorrow!
My new short story from Dreamspinner is out tomorrow- Flamingo, a May December romance. And me trying to be funny! It's a comedy, if you can imagine!
November 24, 2011
My Heroes Have Always Been Navajo Cowboys
My Heroes Have Always Been Navajo Cowboys
When I started writing Marathon Cowboys, I noted that once again one of my heros was a Navajo Marine vet. Like all writers, I worry that I’m writing the same story over and over, or, in my case, writing about the same characters over and over. They all seem unique to me, but I started to think about where these stories are coming from. Why does a writer reach for the same place, the same people? What deep, dark place are we mining? For me, it seems like when I write from the heart, or maybe from the belly, I get a story that resonates. Stories I write from my head? I just don’t feel them the same way. They don’t have any heat. They don’t have any pain. When I reach blindly after a story that’s causing my stomach to clench up, and get it down on paper, those heros turn out to be Navajo men.
I’ve written about other Native American characters, but I lived with the Navajo for six years, and while I don’t believe in racial or ethnic characteristics—people are much too individual and complicated for that—I have come to respect the Navajo men I knew, most of whom were Marine Corps vets, as some of the bravest, gentlest, kindest, and most honorable of men.
The Marine Corps has been the warrior’s path for young Navajo men and women since WWII, when the Navajo Code Talkers arguably won for us the war in the Pacific. With their usual modesty and quiet, they went home to Dinetah and said nothing, and so most of the country never knew or honored their work. Their families knew, though, and the stories that were passed down of sacrifice and bravery motivated their kids and grandkids down to today’s generation to serve.
When my son and I moved out to the reservation, I had a small medical clinic at one of the tribal boarding schools. Word got out pretty quickly that I was retired Navy Nurse Corps. The Navy was always responsible for medical care for the Marine Corps, still is today, which is why Navy Corpsmen are assigned to Marine Combat units. So after I had been on the reservation for a bit, the Marines started checking in with me. I would take their blood pressure and maybe double check their meds were correct, explain what a lab test meant, look at a sore toe. Since the Navajo trade in stories, like we use currency, they would usually tell me a story in exchange for their medical care. I really loved to hear their stories about their military service- WWII, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan. There were a few guys my age who had been in Iraq the same time I was there on the hospital ship, and we exchanged stories about where we were when- like all vets do.
They tell stories as gifts, or to teach a lesson, and I soaked up every bit of the ritual that surrounded the storytelling- the long silence before they started, to make sure I didn’t have anything else to say, then making coffee and pouring cups, the quiet moments of feeling the wind, or looking at the sky and commenting on the weather, and then someone would sit a bit straighter in their seat and start telling a story. At birthday parties for the kids, there were not piles of presents. But everyone had a chance to tell a special story, about the baby’s first laugh, or the time the horse picked up the kid in his diaper, and he ran off across the mesa bare-butt, or the time the Uncle caught the boy kissing a girl out next to the corral.
But the Marines--the stories they told me sunk into my bones. When I reach down somewhere deep, like right behind my solar plexus, where the good stories hide, and pull one out- usually one of the heros is a Navajo Marine Corps vet. I wish I could really do them justice. In real life, they are so much tougher, so much braver and more honorable than I have the skill to write them. And I am haunted by some of these characters- Clayton Etsitty from Border Roads, Lorenzo Maryboy from Marathon Cowboys, Mike and Curtis and Jay from Murder at Black Dog Springs--Curtis Benally’s ghost still haunts me, waiting for me to get it right. I wish I could do them justice. I wish they could have justice.
When I started writing Marathon Cowboys, I noted that once again one of my heros was a Navajo Marine vet. Like all writers, I worry that I’m writing the same story over and over, or, in my case, writing about the same characters over and over. They all seem unique to me, but I started to think about where these stories are coming from. Why does a writer reach for the same place, the same people? What deep, dark place are we mining? For me, it seems like when I write from the heart, or maybe from the belly, I get a story that resonates. Stories I write from my head? I just don’t feel them the same way. They don’t have any heat. They don’t have any pain. When I reach blindly after a story that’s causing my stomach to clench up, and get it down on paper, those heros turn out to be Navajo men.
I’ve written about other Native American characters, but I lived with the Navajo for six years, and while I don’t believe in racial or ethnic characteristics—people are much too individual and complicated for that—I have come to respect the Navajo men I knew, most of whom were Marine Corps vets, as some of the bravest, gentlest, kindest, and most honorable of men.
The Marine Corps has been the warrior’s path for young Navajo men and women since WWII, when the Navajo Code Talkers arguably won for us the war in the Pacific. With their usual modesty and quiet, they went home to Dinetah and said nothing, and so most of the country never knew or honored their work. Their families knew, though, and the stories that were passed down of sacrifice and bravery motivated their kids and grandkids down to today’s generation to serve.
When my son and I moved out to the reservation, I had a small medical clinic at one of the tribal boarding schools. Word got out pretty quickly that I was retired Navy Nurse Corps. The Navy was always responsible for medical care for the Marine Corps, still is today, which is why Navy Corpsmen are assigned to Marine Combat units. So after I had been on the reservation for a bit, the Marines started checking in with me. I would take their blood pressure and maybe double check their meds were correct, explain what a lab test meant, look at a sore toe. Since the Navajo trade in stories, like we use currency, they would usually tell me a story in exchange for their medical care. I really loved to hear their stories about their military service- WWII, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan. There were a few guys my age who had been in Iraq the same time I was there on the hospital ship, and we exchanged stories about where we were when- like all vets do.
They tell stories as gifts, or to teach a lesson, and I soaked up every bit of the ritual that surrounded the storytelling- the long silence before they started, to make sure I didn’t have anything else to say, then making coffee and pouring cups, the quiet moments of feeling the wind, or looking at the sky and commenting on the weather, and then someone would sit a bit straighter in their seat and start telling a story. At birthday parties for the kids, there were not piles of presents. But everyone had a chance to tell a special story, about the baby’s first laugh, or the time the horse picked up the kid in his diaper, and he ran off across the mesa bare-butt, or the time the Uncle caught the boy kissing a girl out next to the corral.
But the Marines--the stories they told me sunk into my bones. When I reach down somewhere deep, like right behind my solar plexus, where the good stories hide, and pull one out- usually one of the heros is a Navajo Marine Corps vet. I wish I could really do them justice. In real life, they are so much tougher, so much braver and more honorable than I have the skill to write them. And I am haunted by some of these characters- Clayton Etsitty from Border Roads, Lorenzo Maryboy from Marathon Cowboys, Mike and Curtis and Jay from Murder at Black Dog Springs--Curtis Benally’s ghost still haunts me, waiting for me to get it right. I wish I could do them justice. I wish they could have justice.
November 19, 2011
Meeting Gigi
Meeting Gigi
I forget sometimes what a delight people can be, and then I meet someone who forces themselves into my tired and frustrated brain by their simple charm. Some of my most interesting encounters have been when I really put myself aside and get to know someone else; I don’t know why I’m always surprised when someone gives me the same gift.
Yesterday at lunch I ran out to get a haircut. Gigi took me back right away and asked me what I wanted. “Just trim it up. Same thing I’ve got now, just less of it.”
“Do you want it layers so the back lies smoothly on your neck?”
I stare at her. “Gigi, I don’t know. It’s just your basic old lady short haircut. Whatever you think is best.”
“Okay.” I take off my glasses and close my eyes, but she keeps trying to make conversation, and eventually tells me a story about hiking up on the Sandia Peak outside Albuquerque. She’s recently moved to Albuquerque from Portland, and is very happy here.
Normally my basic short old lady haircut takes ten minutes tops, but Gigi gets out this razor contraption and starts “shaping” the hair over my ears. I try to save her from the disappointment. “Gigi, there’s not that much to work with. I mean, I’m a nurse. I just need to look tidy.”
She gives me a stern look, and I try again. “Listen, I’m just not that into hair.”
She puts down the little razor, and speaks very firmly and very quietly. “That’s going to change, starting today.” She picks up a jar of something sticky and starts playing with my hair.
“What are you doing?” I can’t see anything. My glasses are still off.
“Just wait.”
When I finally reclaimed my glasses, she had made the top of the old lady haircut stand up in perky little spikes. “Hey, that’s kind of cute!”
“You still look like a nurse, but like a nurse who’s ready for some fun.”
That was a bit optimistic—I thought I looked like a nurse who was tired and irritated, but with a fun-loving hairdresser. But in order to do her work justice, I might even put on some makeup today. And a smile.
I forget sometimes what a delight people can be, and then I meet someone who forces themselves into my tired and frustrated brain by their simple charm. Some of my most interesting encounters have been when I really put myself aside and get to know someone else; I don’t know why I’m always surprised when someone gives me the same gift.
Yesterday at lunch I ran out to get a haircut. Gigi took me back right away and asked me what I wanted. “Just trim it up. Same thing I’ve got now, just less of it.”
“Do you want it layers so the back lies smoothly on your neck?”
I stare at her. “Gigi, I don’t know. It’s just your basic old lady short haircut. Whatever you think is best.”
“Okay.” I take off my glasses and close my eyes, but she keeps trying to make conversation, and eventually tells me a story about hiking up on the Sandia Peak outside Albuquerque. She’s recently moved to Albuquerque from Portland, and is very happy here.
Normally my basic short old lady haircut takes ten minutes tops, but Gigi gets out this razor contraption and starts “shaping” the hair over my ears. I try to save her from the disappointment. “Gigi, there’s not that much to work with. I mean, I’m a nurse. I just need to look tidy.”
She gives me a stern look, and I try again. “Listen, I’m just not that into hair.”
She puts down the little razor, and speaks very firmly and very quietly. “That’s going to change, starting today.” She picks up a jar of something sticky and starts playing with my hair.
“What are you doing?” I can’t see anything. My glasses are still off.
“Just wait.”
When I finally reclaimed my glasses, she had made the top of the old lady haircut stand up in perky little spikes. “Hey, that’s kind of cute!”
“You still look like a nurse, but like a nurse who’s ready for some fun.”
That was a bit optimistic—I thought I looked like a nurse who was tired and irritated, but with a fun-loving hairdresser. But in order to do her work justice, I might even put on some makeup today. And a smile.
November 14, 2011
Marathon Cowboys!
Marathon Cowboys out today from Dreamspinner!
http://tinyurl.com/86r8qlx
Jesse Clayton loves painting, his cowboy grandfather, and his life as an artist with a wild abandon that leaves scorch marks on everything he touches. Budding Navajo cartoonist Lorenzo Maryboy is a hard-working former Marine: staunch, brave, and honorable. Chance brings them together on the road to Marathon, Texas, and passion flares.
Just as always, Jesse puts his art ahead of everything. He betrays their growing trust, and that Lorenzo can’t forgive. But Jesse’s found something he loves more than his art, and what he does to win Lorenzo’s forgiveness is far more dangerous than either man understands.
http://tinyurl.com/86r8qlx
Jesse Clayton loves painting, his cowboy grandfather, and his life as an artist with a wild abandon that leaves scorch marks on everything he touches. Budding Navajo cartoonist Lorenzo Maryboy is a hard-working former Marine: staunch, brave, and honorable. Chance brings them together on the road to Marathon, Texas, and passion flares.
Just as always, Jesse puts his art ahead of everything. He betrays their growing trust, and that Lorenzo can’t forgive. But Jesse’s found something he loves more than his art, and what he does to win Lorenzo’s forgiveness is far more dangerous than either man understands.
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