Jessica Berg's Blog, page 4

Let Your Imagination Soar … Characterization

There is a writer inside everybody.  It might be shriveled up from disuse, it might be calloused from one to many rejections, or it might be a little princess (or prince) preening at the very mention of another well-written document.

Now is your chance to shine or attempt to rub off a little rust.  Once a week, I’ll discuss a writing element to help you become a better writer.  By the end, you will have your own piece of writing.  Maybe you’ll write a short story; maybe you’ll write a novel; maybe you’ll write a children’s book.  The end product is entirely up to you and your imagination.  The only thing I ask is that you share your weekly writings.  This will help you be a stronger writer, and you’ll get feedback from me and others.  It’s not as intimidating as it might seem … I promise.

In order to have a great story, you need several things.  The first element we’ll discuss is the importance of good characters.  We’ve all fallen in love with a character; there is a reason movies based on books can flop at the box office:  the actor didn’t quite capture what we envisioned our beloved character to be like.

Create a character that either the reader will love to love or love to hate.  The next step is to create him or her.  Remember, show; don’t tell.  Instead of telling us what the character is like, have your character say or do things that reflect his or her personality.

Telling example:  Jimmy was a naughty little boy who compensated for his small stature by destroying things.

Showing example:  Jimmy struggled to raise his 4 foot frame far enough to peak into Mrs. Baxter’s front picture window.  There she sat with her white head bowed over a bird puzzle.  Jimmy snickered and eased himself down, tip-toed around the old lady’s house, and began pulling up her prize petunias by their roots. 

So, your first assignment is to create two main characters.  Usually you have a protagonist (good guy) and an antagonist (bad guy).  You can, of course, write a romance.  Naturally, you’ll have the two love interests.  Write a paragraph or two about each of the two characters:  what will they do?  What do they look like (keep away from stereotypical good guy/bad guy looks … make the character unique enough to grab the readers’ attention)?  Why is there tension between the two?  What do your characters do for a living?  Does one of them die at the end of your story?

I hope you all join in this writing experience.  It will be fun to read everybody’s ideas.  I can’t wait!  Have ideas posted by next Wednesday, December 18.  If you have specific questions, please ask me.  I’ll help you out any way I can.  If you aren’t a big writer, but you know someone who loves to write or who you think would enjoy a literary challenge, please pass this along to them.

He Soiled His What … ?

Let me introduce you to my husband, Chad.  He’s handsome, kind, charming (when he wants to be), and he’s funny.  Oh yeah, I almost forgot … he LOVES to argue and debate.  Now, I’m the opposite.  I’d rather let the other person win; however, when our debates center on those of a literary or vernacular nature, I hang on like a bull dog, tenacious until my husband taps out or because I genuinely win. 

Take for example our last debate over the use of the word “soiled”.  We were leaving the gym, and Chad stated that he needed to wash his ball cap because it was soiled.  I should have known better.  I should have bitten my tongue.  I should have let him believe himself correct.  But, alas, I couldn’t do it.  So began our debate. 

My take:  the word soiled, even though it means to make dirty or filthy, is generally used in reference to something coming in contact with poo.  For instance, if someone states they soiled his/her pants, people would assume he/she didn’t make it to the bathroom on time.  So, I, being the good wife, explained to my husband that he might not want to go around stating that he soiled his hat. 

Chad’s take:  why bend to the pressure of society?  Is this really what we’ve come to?  Forsaking a historical definition all for the sake of public scrutiny?  Who cares if someone thinks I messed in my hat?  They are only showing their ignorance if they truly think I “shat” in my hat! 

So, here is where I need you, dear reader.  I would love your take on the word “soiled”.  Is it to be only used when dealing with excrement?  Or is it okay to use when describing anything dirty or filthy?  I won’t lie to you … I hope I’ll get enough support so I can perform the proverbially “see-I-told-you-so” dance.  If, however, you agree with my husband, I will accept my defeat in a lady-like fashion and “tap out”.  

Prairie Keepers

Prairie Keeper

Their unseeing eyes gaze upon endless waving grasses.  What is it that they see?  Are they looking upon the present, or are they reminiscing about what is past?  The pane-less, curtain-less windows of abandoned houses haunt the prairies, reminding us of our own mortality.

Ever since I can remember I’ve been drawn to the alluring sadness of old houses.  They entice me and make me wonder who once called those four walls home.  If we were brave enough to stare into the depths of those rotted-out windows, we would be taken on a journey into the past only to see our own lives reflected back to us in the eyes of the prairie keepers.

Sunlight pours in through the just-installed glass panes.  The woman behind the glass tentatively touches it, afraid it might shatter.  She’s waited for months for this clear protective barrier between the outside elements and her beloved family.  She fingers the yellow gingham curtains her mother gave her as a wedding present.  She catches a glimpse of her husband striding to the barn.  He seems to sense her presence and turns to wave.  Her heart catches in her chest, and she waves in return.  With a sigh of contentment, the woman turns to study her home. 

The whitewashed, plank board walls glisten after their Saturday cleaning.  She moves toward the kitchen table and removes a speck of dirt off its smooth surface.  She stops for a moment to inhale the scent of the purple and yellow wildflowers smiling at her from the blue, cut-glass vase her husband had given her for their first anniversary.  An ink stain glares at her from her grandmother’s Oriental rug.  No matter what she does, she can’t quite erase its black presence.  She smiles at the rocking chair sitting in the corner.  The teeth marks remind her why Biscuit, the motley-colored mutt, calls the great outdoors home.  A cry emanates from the hand-made cradle nestled in the corner.  Her heart flutters again thinking of the man whose hands had created the small bed and whose love had created the small, swaddled human now cooing from the crib. 

Pictures of her mom and dad look sternly upon her and her new home.  Would they be proud of her as a new mother and wife?  Tears escape her eyes.  She would never now.  The letter that brought the devastating news a few weeks ago still lays in a crumpled ball in the corner by the brass bed she and her husband share.  She didn’t have the heart to touch the evil missive again.   Sadness pierces her soul.  She would never get to say her final goodbyes.  A train ticket back East was out of the question.  Straightening her solid shoulders, she reminds herself she’d see them again someday in Heaven. 

Picking up her baby son, she breathes in his scent.  Even though her house was small and her earthly possessions were sparse, the woman knows she is truly blessed.  

I hate to think about the sadness this woman survived, if she did.  Like so many other pioneer women, did she have to place her precious son into the cold, merciless ground just months or years after his birth?  Was she forced to bury her husband next to her infant child in the family cemetery a mile from the log house she made a home?  I’d like to think she grew into an old woman with her adoring husband by her side.  I pray she never had to lose a child.  But, for some reason, whenever I look at an old, abandoned house, I can’t help but see the ghosts of those swaying yellow gingham curtains from the pane-less eyes of the prairie keepers.  Ghosts of what used to be.  Ghosts of women making simple sod houses and log houses a home.  Ghosts of children laughing.  Ghosts of men sweeping their woman into an embrace after a long, hard day of work.  Ghosts of our past.  Ghosts of our future.