R.A. White's Blog, page 9
October 3, 2016
Trooper Story
I had the weekly paper in my hands, having gathered it to recycle, and as I looked at it, I began to regret the thought of throwing it out when I could do something much more fun with it. "Trooper," I said. "Would you like to save up papers and make a piñata?"
"Sure, Mom!" he said.
I frowned. "But I don't want to put candy in it. I don't like all that. What could we put in it instead of candy?"
He thought for just the briefest moment before giving a little excited hop. "Sushi!"
"Sure, Mom!" he said.
I frowned. "But I don't want to put candy in it. I don't like all that. What could we put in it instead of candy?"
He thought for just the briefest moment before giving a little excited hop. "Sushi!"
September 24, 2016
Can We Get a Cadillac?
"Mom, can we get a Cadillac?" The question might have seemed entirely random except that I knew Trooper had been watching car emblems again, and had recently announced 'Cadillac!'
I laughed. "No, we can't get a Cadillac. We don't have that kind of money, and even if we did, we'd do something else with it."
"But I want a Cadillac," he said. For the previous week he'd been asking us to get a Nissan. This is why the six-year-old isn't in charge.
"Trooper, we're not getting a Cadillac. When you grow up, if you get a good job and make lots of money, you can help poor people and get a Cadillac."
He thought for a moment. "But poor people live two miles away! I can't walk that far. I have to get a Cadillac and then help poor people."
I laughed at his logic, thinking how young we start grooming the facts to support our desires. "Well, yes," I agreed. "In our culture it is easier to help people if you have a car. But it doesn't have to be a Cadillac." But how often we adults are just as blatant as a kindergartener. The things people feel they must have before they can share with others are generally not necessary and often aren't even healthy… I honestly believe this is something we do better than average American, but I still see ways we could improve. And we will ;)
I laughed. "No, we can't get a Cadillac. We don't have that kind of money, and even if we did, we'd do something else with it."
"But I want a Cadillac," he said. For the previous week he'd been asking us to get a Nissan. This is why the six-year-old isn't in charge.
"Trooper, we're not getting a Cadillac. When you grow up, if you get a good job and make lots of money, you can help poor people and get a Cadillac."
He thought for a moment. "But poor people live two miles away! I can't walk that far. I have to get a Cadillac and then help poor people."
I laughed at his logic, thinking how young we start grooming the facts to support our desires. "Well, yes," I agreed. "In our culture it is easier to help people if you have a car. But it doesn't have to be a Cadillac." But how often we adults are just as blatant as a kindergartener. The things people feel they must have before they can share with others are generally not necessary and often aren't even healthy… I honestly believe this is something we do better than average American, but I still see ways we could improve. And we will ;)
August 22, 2016
He Doesn't Speak English
As we hop from one challenge to the next and back again with moving, unpacking, travelling, church work, family visits, starting school, and finding our way around the area, I realized that I had forgotten to blog. Actually, I kind of forgot that I even had a blog. I've been trying to get back into writing, with little success, but at least I can share a pair of short, sweet, Trooper stories with you:
-Among our new friends here in Florida is a man named Kevin. Kevin has a distinctive southern accent and a friendly, easy going personality to go with it. One evening, Trooper said to Jonathan and me, "Mr. Kevin doesn't speak English."
For whatever reason, Trooper has a hard time getting his languages straight, and often will call other languages English, or say that we speak Spanish. I said, "Yes, he speaks English, and so do we."
"No, he doesn't speak English. He speaks Farmer."
-More recently, Trooper has developed an obsession with naming vehicles. For example, "That's a Lincoln, that's a Dodge, that's a Yukon, that's a Chrysler…" And so on. The other day, he said, "That's a Cadillac! Look, it's the same one I saw the other day!"
I asked, "Is it the exact same car, or just very similar to it?"
"It's similar," he said. "That Cadillac is related to the Cadillac in our neighborhood."
-Among our new friends here in Florida is a man named Kevin. Kevin has a distinctive southern accent and a friendly, easy going personality to go with it. One evening, Trooper said to Jonathan and me, "Mr. Kevin doesn't speak English."
For whatever reason, Trooper has a hard time getting his languages straight, and often will call other languages English, or say that we speak Spanish. I said, "Yes, he speaks English, and so do we."
"No, he doesn't speak English. He speaks Farmer."
-More recently, Trooper has developed an obsession with naming vehicles. For example, "That's a Lincoln, that's a Dodge, that's a Yukon, that's a Chrysler…" And so on. The other day, he said, "That's a Cadillac! Look, it's the same one I saw the other day!"
I asked, "Is it the exact same car, or just very similar to it?"
"It's similar," he said. "That Cadillac is related to the Cadillac in our neighborhood."
June 26, 2016
Post PULSE Musings from Orlando
In light of the shootings down here in the Orlando area, I've been feeling the need to post something other than Trooper Stories or book updates. But what is there to say about such horrible destruction? At first I was sure everything had already been said a hundred times over; after all, it was the news until the more recent craziness in Europe. But after spending some time deliberating on our mass shooting and others like it, I've come to what (to me) is an interesting idea to chew on. So, here goes…
I keep coming back to something I say to Trooper all the time, "We are not destructive people, we are creative people." Usually I'm referring to something he's torn up or otherwise ruined, but I hope it will stick with him and be applied to other parts of his life in the future.
This question spins in my mind, begging to be unraveled--Why are people so destructive? We destroy the environment, relationships, self-esteem, reputations, families, our bodies… The list goes on and on, and the answer to most of these things is that we do it for personal gain of some sort, usually short lived. The desire for instant gratification is monster of the most violent type, and will turn even the most thoughtful and caring of us into greedy strip miners of land and soul if we aren't ruthlessly self-aware. Because I have often been guilty of these forms of destruction, I understand them even as I despise them.
But shooting up a club (or school, or mall) full of people for seemingly no reason other than the desire to destroy--how do we understand that? What is there to gain from that? A thrill? A false sense of power?
I insist that there can be no thrill, no sense of power, greater than that of creating something useful or beautiful. I might feel a sense of satisfaction when eradicating a wasp nest from my front door, but that is nothing when compared with the satisfaction of planting and successfully growing a vegetable plant or flower. Maybe in our western culture, we've lost a sense of nurturing as we've drifted from farming and producing, and so we turn our energies elsewhere, looking for a thrill or sense of meaning in destruction. I find myself wondering what our world would look like if our children spent their time gardening and helping those in need instead of playing video games and watching inane kid shows. What if our adults did it?
This led me to think about the people who cause wars, massacres, genocide--were any of them tenders of land and creatures? Health care professionals? Builders? And I mean nurturers, not wholesale farmers who might see the earth as nothing more than a means to an end, doctors out for nothing more than a guaranteed salary. I suppose the heart and intention is actually more important than the acts themselves, or whether or not a career is involved.
It seems to me, admittedly without intentional research, that most if not all of the particularly violent men of world history were rulers who spent their lives telling other people what to do, not cultivating… I will have to look into this further, and hope that you will as well. It would be interesting to learn that the problem hasn't been a lack of being nurtured properly, but rather a lack of nurturing on the part of the individual.
Comments welcome.
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I keep coming back to something I say to Trooper all the time, "We are not destructive people, we are creative people." Usually I'm referring to something he's torn up or otherwise ruined, but I hope it will stick with him and be applied to other parts of his life in the future.
This question spins in my mind, begging to be unraveled--Why are people so destructive? We destroy the environment, relationships, self-esteem, reputations, families, our bodies… The list goes on and on, and the answer to most of these things is that we do it for personal gain of some sort, usually short lived. The desire for instant gratification is monster of the most violent type, and will turn even the most thoughtful and caring of us into greedy strip miners of land and soul if we aren't ruthlessly self-aware. Because I have often been guilty of these forms of destruction, I understand them even as I despise them.
But shooting up a club (or school, or mall) full of people for seemingly no reason other than the desire to destroy--how do we understand that? What is there to gain from that? A thrill? A false sense of power?
I insist that there can be no thrill, no sense of power, greater than that of creating something useful or beautiful. I might feel a sense of satisfaction when eradicating a wasp nest from my front door, but that is nothing when compared with the satisfaction of planting and successfully growing a vegetable plant or flower. Maybe in our western culture, we've lost a sense of nurturing as we've drifted from farming and producing, and so we turn our energies elsewhere, looking for a thrill or sense of meaning in destruction. I find myself wondering what our world would look like if our children spent their time gardening and helping those in need instead of playing video games and watching inane kid shows. What if our adults did it?
This led me to think about the people who cause wars, massacres, genocide--were any of them tenders of land and creatures? Health care professionals? Builders? And I mean nurturers, not wholesale farmers who might see the earth as nothing more than a means to an end, doctors out for nothing more than a guaranteed salary. I suppose the heart and intention is actually more important than the acts themselves, or whether or not a career is involved.
It seems to me, admittedly without intentional research, that most if not all of the particularly violent men of world history were rulers who spent their lives telling other people what to do, not cultivating… I will have to look into this further, and hope that you will as well. It would be interesting to learn that the problem hasn't been a lack of being nurtured properly, but rather a lack of nurturing on the part of the individual.
Comments welcome.
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June 1, 2016
W.W.2, Edelweiss, and Dr. Seuss
Trooper and I were lying on my bed, enjoying a quiet hour before hitting the sack, and the conversation turned to the song 'Edelweiss', which we had heard on a movie (not The Sound of Music, oddly enough). Naturally, this led to a Kindergarten level discussion of World War 2, including a generic overview of Adolf Hitler and his horrors, the Von Trapp Family Singers of The Sound of Music, Pearl Harbor, and Doctor Seuss (who we previously learned had lobbied for the U.S.A.'s involvement in W.W.2.). Trooper asked questions, which I did my best to answer despite my sketchy recollection, and as I talked he began saying something like this, "I slashed his legs, and I cut off his legs, and then I killed him!"
"What? Who are you talking about?"
"Adolf Hitler. I killed him."
"Oh. Well, O.K." I don't usually support random bouts of violent thoughts, but in this case, I couldn't argue.
A few minutes later, he asked me, "When we get to our new house, are you gonna get married?"
"Well, I'm already married," I explained for the twenty-second time. "I can't get married again." He often seems to resent his absence at our wedding, and I assumed we were back to that again.
"But you have to get married and have a baby!"
"What?! No, thank you. I don't want to have a baby."
"But I want a brother and a sister, and I want them to grow in your belly."
Oh, crap. "But I don't want to grow a baby in there. How about we adopt one instead?"
He thought for a moment, then nodded. "O.K. Can we get one on Sunday?"
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"What? Who are you talking about?"
"Adolf Hitler. I killed him."
"Oh. Well, O.K." I don't usually support random bouts of violent thoughts, but in this case, I couldn't argue.
A few minutes later, he asked me, "When we get to our new house, are you gonna get married?"
"Well, I'm already married," I explained for the twenty-second time. "I can't get married again." He often seems to resent his absence at our wedding, and I assumed we were back to that again.
"But you have to get married and have a baby!"
"What?! No, thank you. I don't want to have a baby."
"But I want a brother and a sister, and I want them to grow in your belly."
Oh, crap. "But I don't want to grow a baby in there. How about we adopt one instead?"
He thought for a moment, then nodded. "O.K. Can we get one on Sunday?"
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May 25, 2016
"Why Did You Pick a Black Boy?"
…And this is the question my five-year-old asked me this evening. The story has a twist or two before coming to its conclusion, and I invite you to suffer it with me.
I was washing dishes and cleaning up the counters while Trooper finished off the last of the baked apples. "Mom, why did you pick a black boy?"
To my mind, the question came out of nowhere. I'm sure I had that dumbfounded look parents get when their kids ask 'where do babies come from', but this question of why I chose black wasn't one I could have anticipated. "Uh, well, your skin color wasn't really a factor in why I chose you. You were so sweet, and precious, and brave, and adorable that I just had to chose you. It didn't have anything to do with being black." I thought for a moment, wondering if we were on the same page at all. "I'm glad it worked out that way, though, because I really love your brown skin."
He processed for a moment, seemed to think that was good enough, and went on with his scrounging. He went on to eat some leftovers and then a tangerine.
Later, I got to thinking about our conversation, and began to wonder if he had a completely inaccurate understanding of the way things happened. It seemed almost as if he thought I predetermined his color, like special ordering a toy truck, and I was a little concerned that he might next wonder why I had made him ventilator dependent. So, silly me, I decided to bring it up before bed.
I said, "Trooper, you understand that you were born before I knew you, right? That I didn't put an order in for a brown boy, somebody made you, and sent you to me? You know that, right?"
He smiled his big, ornery smile. "Ha! No, God made me…"
"That's right…" I began, but he hadn't finished.
"… out of a skunk."
"What?!"
I don't know how to describe mischief in Trooper's face. This is a sad testament to my writing ability because as often as I see it, I should be able to offer a poetic description and fill your mind with a vivid mental picture. So I'll just say his face was alive with mischief, and leave it at that. "God put a skunk in a pot, and mixed it up, and made me out of it."
It took me too long to respond, but finally I said, "Is that why you're a stink pot?"
He thought this was hilarious, and laughed with his head thrown back while I stared at him in something akin to bewilderment.
"Seriously," I said. "You're brown because your birth mom is brown. I love your color, but that's not why I picked you."
I've actually explained this to him numerous times before, but it seemed to sink in this time. "Oh," he said, and I could see the understanding in his eyes. "So she's black…"
And then the conversation naturally turned back to what he was wearing to bed and what we're doing tomorrow, his mind at peace, for now, and unconfused about our difference of melanin concentration.
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I was washing dishes and cleaning up the counters while Trooper finished off the last of the baked apples. "Mom, why did you pick a black boy?"
To my mind, the question came out of nowhere. I'm sure I had that dumbfounded look parents get when their kids ask 'where do babies come from', but this question of why I chose black wasn't one I could have anticipated. "Uh, well, your skin color wasn't really a factor in why I chose you. You were so sweet, and precious, and brave, and adorable that I just had to chose you. It didn't have anything to do with being black." I thought for a moment, wondering if we were on the same page at all. "I'm glad it worked out that way, though, because I really love your brown skin."
He processed for a moment, seemed to think that was good enough, and went on with his scrounging. He went on to eat some leftovers and then a tangerine.
Later, I got to thinking about our conversation, and began to wonder if he had a completely inaccurate understanding of the way things happened. It seemed almost as if he thought I predetermined his color, like special ordering a toy truck, and I was a little concerned that he might next wonder why I had made him ventilator dependent. So, silly me, I decided to bring it up before bed.
I said, "Trooper, you understand that you were born before I knew you, right? That I didn't put an order in for a brown boy, somebody made you, and sent you to me? You know that, right?"
He smiled his big, ornery smile. "Ha! No, God made me…"
"That's right…" I began, but he hadn't finished.
"… out of a skunk."
"What?!"
I don't know how to describe mischief in Trooper's face. This is a sad testament to my writing ability because as often as I see it, I should be able to offer a poetic description and fill your mind with a vivid mental picture. So I'll just say his face was alive with mischief, and leave it at that. "God put a skunk in a pot, and mixed it up, and made me out of it."
It took me too long to respond, but finally I said, "Is that why you're a stink pot?"
He thought this was hilarious, and laughed with his head thrown back while I stared at him in something akin to bewilderment.
"Seriously," I said. "You're brown because your birth mom is brown. I love your color, but that's not why I picked you."
I've actually explained this to him numerous times before, but it seemed to sink in this time. "Oh," he said, and I could see the understanding in his eyes. "So she's black…"
And then the conversation naturally turned back to what he was wearing to bed and what we're doing tomorrow, his mind at peace, for now, and unconfused about our difference of melanin concentration.
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Trooper Stories
I found these stories lost in my files, poor things. Enjoy.
1.
I had just stuck the second leg of my nylons over my foot. I leaned against the side of the bed to keep my balance, looking up when Trooper burst into the room. "Hey, that looks like a zombie," he said, indicating the length of light tan hose that hung from my toes for about sixteen inches. "Hehe, I'm just teasing you. It's my imagination."
2.
What's odder than a kid who asks to eat fish for dinner? A kid who spontaneously announces that he wants to eat broccoli with it. What's even odder than that? A kid who gets excited when offered Brussels sprouts in place of the broccoli.
3.
"And what is this?" the doctor asked, showing Trooper a sketch of an igloo. It was about thirty minutes into his three hour evaluation, and he was still having fun.
"That's… I forget what it's called. It's where polar bears live."
"O.K.," the doctor said, nodding that this was an acceptable answer, if a little outside the norm. "What do they do there?"
Trooper put his finger on his chin, thinking. "Um… Oh!" he said as the answer came to him. "They eat people!"
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1.
I had just stuck the second leg of my nylons over my foot. I leaned against the side of the bed to keep my balance, looking up when Trooper burst into the room. "Hey, that looks like a zombie," he said, indicating the length of light tan hose that hung from my toes for about sixteen inches. "Hehe, I'm just teasing you. It's my imagination."
2.
What's odder than a kid who asks to eat fish for dinner? A kid who spontaneously announces that he wants to eat broccoli with it. What's even odder than that? A kid who gets excited when offered Brussels sprouts in place of the broccoli.
3.
"And what is this?" the doctor asked, showing Trooper a sketch of an igloo. It was about thirty minutes into his three hour evaluation, and he was still having fun.
"That's… I forget what it's called. It's where polar bears live."
"O.K.," the doctor said, nodding that this was an acceptable answer, if a little outside the norm. "What do they do there?"
Trooper put his finger on his chin, thinking. "Um… Oh!" he said as the answer came to him. "They eat people!"
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May 3, 2016
I Don't Have a Crazy Dad
As part of our move to Florida, I took down the shelves in Trooper's room while he was out of the house. Being a child who has a hard time coping with change, he was a bit bothered. He came charging out of his room to throw himself into my lap. With his face four inches from mine, he growled at me with saliva hissing out of his teeth.
"Stop that!" I pushed him away, grossed out by the spit.
He stood, giving me a hard look. "I did it intentionally because you took down all my shelves!"
Jonathan and I laughed at his choice of words. I often find myself surprised that a boy who can't remember the name of the color 'orange' uses words like 'intentionally' and 'temperature' and 'evaporate'.
"Yes, Trooper," I said. I saw that he was once again holding his new glasses instead of wearing them, and turned my attention to that. "Now put on your glasses or put them on the shelf and sit on your bed."
"Yeah, Trooper, put your glasses on the shelf," Jonathan teased.
"But I don't have a shelf!"
"I don't care, just put them on the shelf!"
"But Dad!"
And that went on for a minute or more, them mock arguing about the missing shelves. I shook my head, giggling. I hadn't meant he had to put them on a shelf that wasn't there, just that I didn't want them on the floor.
"Trooper, come here," I said, and I pulled him to sit with Jonathan and me, hugging him onto my lap as I laughed at their silliness.
"Isn't it fun to have a crazy dad?" Jonathan asked.
"I don't have a crazy dad," Trooper answered. "I have a bad mom."
"What!?" Jonathan and I almost shrieked in tandem.
We laughed for a while before I understood where the statement had come from. "You're saying that because of the shelves, aren't you?"
"Yes."
And that got us laughing again.
"O.K.," Jonathan said. "Here's your glasses case. Go put it on the shelf in your room."
Trooper got up and dutifully started toward his room. Then he froze. Turned around. Gave us a dirty look. "I don't have any shelves."
Laughing is good.
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"Stop that!" I pushed him away, grossed out by the spit.
He stood, giving me a hard look. "I did it intentionally because you took down all my shelves!"
Jonathan and I laughed at his choice of words. I often find myself surprised that a boy who can't remember the name of the color 'orange' uses words like 'intentionally' and 'temperature' and 'evaporate'.
"Yes, Trooper," I said. I saw that he was once again holding his new glasses instead of wearing them, and turned my attention to that. "Now put on your glasses or put them on the shelf and sit on your bed."
"Yeah, Trooper, put your glasses on the shelf," Jonathan teased.
"But I don't have a shelf!"
"I don't care, just put them on the shelf!"
"But Dad!"
And that went on for a minute or more, them mock arguing about the missing shelves. I shook my head, giggling. I hadn't meant he had to put them on a shelf that wasn't there, just that I didn't want them on the floor.
"Trooper, come here," I said, and I pulled him to sit with Jonathan and me, hugging him onto my lap as I laughed at their silliness.
"Isn't it fun to have a crazy dad?" Jonathan asked.
"I don't have a crazy dad," Trooper answered. "I have a bad mom."
"What!?" Jonathan and I almost shrieked in tandem.
We laughed for a while before I understood where the statement had come from. "You're saying that because of the shelves, aren't you?"
"Yes."
And that got us laughing again.
"O.K.," Jonathan said. "Here's your glasses case. Go put it on the shelf in your room."
Trooper got up and dutifully started toward his room. Then he froze. Turned around. Gave us a dirty look. "I don't have any shelves."
Laughing is good.
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April 23, 2016
What Are the Chances?
This is a bizarre story, and I have to share.I was at the library with Trooper a few weeks ago and happened to look up at a poster on the window by the door. It was a poster for a 'Meet the Authors' event, and the last featured author was S. Raven Storm. I paused there in the doorway, trying to remember where I knew that name from, and it finally hit me--a blog subscriber.
When I came back from my trip to Florida last month, I had a new blog subscriber with an unusual email address. I won't share it all with you, of course, but suffice it to say the words 'raven' and 'storm' were in it, and it caught my attention. Usually email addresses are more random, initials, numbers, pet names, whatever, so this one stood out. When I saw it there on the library door, I just knew it had to be the same person. I thought, what are the chances that there are two Raven Storms, one a writer and one a book blog subscriber? But really, the chances of that are probably greater than a subscribing author who shows up at the Dover Public Library! I mean, seriously, what are the chances?
So I got home and looked her up, and saw her books listed as erotic paranormal or something like that, which I avoid, but with the weird happening, I couldn't help going in to meet her at the event. When I got there I went straight to her table and introduced myself, and people, she made me feel like a real celebrity. We got our pictures together and everything, as you can see. She had read Kergulen and began following the blog because she liked it so much. It turns out that she doesn't really write 'paranormal erotica', she writes 'paranormal romance' with explicit scenes, which really is different, trust me, so I plan to check out her first book, one of these days when I'm devoting more time to reading.
Raven tells me that there are a lot of events for authors in the Orlando area, so maybe I'll meet a lot more people there once I've settled in. For now, it's all about final field trips, goodbyes, and packing.
Thanks for reading!
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April 11, 2016
Be Realistic!
The following post was originally intended for writers, but I encourage even non-writers to apply some of the steps here for your own personal benefit. You might be surprised at how steps two and three could help you relate to others in general.
Necessity of Experience
I'm sure we've all read one or two stories where we were annoyed or even downright outraged at the offensive--or at best uninventive--way certain characters were written. I'm talking about the short, round villain, the down-trodden single mother, the prissy blond, the sexy Latino, the slutty Jersey girl, the wise old Asian, the butch lesbian, the joyless rape victim... As a teen I got so fed up with helpless female characters (usually written by men) that I avoided female leads altogether, thinking I had more in common with men. And I can't begin to guess how many male characters I've read who weren't like men at all, but exactly the way women want them to be.
Why does this happen? Sometimes there are intentional misrepresentations, but I believe that the problem usually lies in the author's lack of familiarity with the people he or she is attempting to portray. This ignorance can be deliberate or simply lazy, and is fostered by the delusion that what we see in movies, the news, and other media can be relied on to provide accurate representation. The result is caricatures of caricatures, characters so unrealistic and flat that we use phrases like 'cookie cutter' and 'cardboard' to describe them. At best, readers are offended. At worst, they believe what they're reading and perpetuate the lie that large black men are criminals, American Indians speak broken English, and homeschoolers are nerdy Christians, utterly lacking social skills.
This is why I believe writers must be intimately knowledgeable of the kinds of characters they're writing, of the experiences their characters have, and of the places their characters go. It's the only way to give readers deep, realistic stories that can provide glimpses into other worlds. But what if I want to write a fantasy novel about a scorned immigrant, and I've never been an immigrant, never lived with the dread of expulsion or fear for my life? What if I feel compelled to give voice to such a girl, but have no personal experience on which to build her story? It can still be done, but it's going to take work.
Personal experience is always the best kind, but since many of us can't (or simply wouldn't want to!) physically experience the things our characters go through, we need to do research if we want meaningful stories that will steal the hearts of readers.
So, I have a handful of research ideas that are both fun and useful, whether you're a writer or just want to broaden your understanding of the people around you:
First, take stock of your own experiences. In what ways can you relate to the person you're trying to understand? Maybe you haven't lost a limb, but have you ever been laid up with an injury or surgery? Don't presume to think you can completely relate, but channel those emotions for your benefit. I was never an immigrant, but I did live in another country for a couple of years, so I'm familiar with the challenges of culture and language differences. I can let that struggle influence my writing.
Second, Google really is your friend. Imagining yourself as a blind person, for example, may not give you much insight into what it's really like. But some technical reading (that word 'technical' is important. Reading Daredevil doesn't count) can give you an abundance of useful information that will help you in the next step, which is…
Third, interview real, live people. Asking for an interview can be intimidating, but I've found that people are happy and excited to share. They want to be understood and they feel important because someone cared enough to try. As long as you're respectful in your questions and tone, it will be a good experience for you and your interviewee.
Fourth, get feedback. If you're writing a character or place outside your personal experience, get several honest people who have lived that life to read it for you and tell you where you got it wrong. This is vital to authentic writing and understanding. Don't skip it.
All of this research becomes your own experience, letting you live vicariously through others in order to become a more understanding, compassionate human being, not just writer.
Note: About a year ago I wrote this bit for another blog, but either they never published it or I just never saw it. I hate to let hours of work go to waste, so I shared it here.
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Necessity of Experience
I'm sure we've all read one or two stories where we were annoyed or even downright outraged at the offensive--or at best uninventive--way certain characters were written. I'm talking about the short, round villain, the down-trodden single mother, the prissy blond, the sexy Latino, the slutty Jersey girl, the wise old Asian, the butch lesbian, the joyless rape victim... As a teen I got so fed up with helpless female characters (usually written by men) that I avoided female leads altogether, thinking I had more in common with men. And I can't begin to guess how many male characters I've read who weren't like men at all, but exactly the way women want them to be.
Why does this happen? Sometimes there are intentional misrepresentations, but I believe that the problem usually lies in the author's lack of familiarity with the people he or she is attempting to portray. This ignorance can be deliberate or simply lazy, and is fostered by the delusion that what we see in movies, the news, and other media can be relied on to provide accurate representation. The result is caricatures of caricatures, characters so unrealistic and flat that we use phrases like 'cookie cutter' and 'cardboard' to describe them. At best, readers are offended. At worst, they believe what they're reading and perpetuate the lie that large black men are criminals, American Indians speak broken English, and homeschoolers are nerdy Christians, utterly lacking social skills.
This is why I believe writers must be intimately knowledgeable of the kinds of characters they're writing, of the experiences their characters have, and of the places their characters go. It's the only way to give readers deep, realistic stories that can provide glimpses into other worlds. But what if I want to write a fantasy novel about a scorned immigrant, and I've never been an immigrant, never lived with the dread of expulsion or fear for my life? What if I feel compelled to give voice to such a girl, but have no personal experience on which to build her story? It can still be done, but it's going to take work.
Personal experience is always the best kind, but since many of us can't (or simply wouldn't want to!) physically experience the things our characters go through, we need to do research if we want meaningful stories that will steal the hearts of readers.
So, I have a handful of research ideas that are both fun and useful, whether you're a writer or just want to broaden your understanding of the people around you:
First, take stock of your own experiences. In what ways can you relate to the person you're trying to understand? Maybe you haven't lost a limb, but have you ever been laid up with an injury or surgery? Don't presume to think you can completely relate, but channel those emotions for your benefit. I was never an immigrant, but I did live in another country for a couple of years, so I'm familiar with the challenges of culture and language differences. I can let that struggle influence my writing.
Second, Google really is your friend. Imagining yourself as a blind person, for example, may not give you much insight into what it's really like. But some technical reading (that word 'technical' is important. Reading Daredevil doesn't count) can give you an abundance of useful information that will help you in the next step, which is…
Third, interview real, live people. Asking for an interview can be intimidating, but I've found that people are happy and excited to share. They want to be understood and they feel important because someone cared enough to try. As long as you're respectful in your questions and tone, it will be a good experience for you and your interviewee.
Fourth, get feedback. If you're writing a character or place outside your personal experience, get several honest people who have lived that life to read it for you and tell you where you got it wrong. This is vital to authentic writing and understanding. Don't skip it.
All of this research becomes your own experience, letting you live vicariously through others in order to become a more understanding, compassionate human being, not just writer.
Note: About a year ago I wrote this bit for another blog, but either they never published it or I just never saw it. I hate to let hours of work go to waste, so I shared it here.
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