I remember reading in my 20s a tome by a famous Russian that included a brilliant chapter about the cutting of crops. I can’t tell you now that my age has doubled whether it was The Brothers Karamazov or Anna Karenina or something else. The chapter went on and on, describing in exquisite detail how the men with their scythes swept over the land felling the wheat. I’m not sure one word of dialogue marred the perfect narration.

I knew I loved literature then, even had been writing for years, but I never would have called myself a writer. Couldn’t even conceive of claiming a neighborhood that was close to where that esteemed Russian writer wiggled his pen and created magic.

I still don’t think I’m on the same block, but today I claim the same zip code. And it’s because I understand that the characters I create are a landscape of a different sort. I can describe Lake Superior to you or the walls of a prison cell, but I’m much more interested these days in the intricacies of the hidden and blatent mind, in why the left eye squinches down tightly and the heart threatens to stop beating when a certain person enters the room. Their voices and silences are mountains and valleys in my head. Their tears are rivers and joy paints sunshine over the green, lush grass of their faces. And sometimes they cut down the ones they love most with the scythe they’ve sharpened on bitter fear.

This post was originally written November 7, 2006 for the private blog of my writing group, Novel-ties.

Sometimes it just takes a while to figure out the right door into a scene. I might know what has to happen in the scene, I might even have some of the snippets of dialogue echoing in my brain, but they all have to wait until I figure out the door—whose eyes I’m writing through and where those eyes are focused on the exact moment of entry.

Some writers will tell you they just begin somewhere; I like to be economical. Most of the time my first-draft beginnings end up being the final draft beginnings. Everything else might change but where I begin is usually not one of them.

It’s a little like I’m camped out at Let’s Make a Deal, my fuzzy orange clown hair itching my scalp under the hot lights, waiting for Monty to propose something. Door #1? The beautifully wrapped box that the lovely Carol Merrill is highlighting with those perfectly groomed hands?

Maybe Monty doesn’t choose me at all and instead after several hours I end up shuffling out the back doors into a deserted alley. I take off my wig and the crazy red polka-dot bow tie, and it’s only when I open the dumpster to toss them that I envision the delicate ear of my heroine shoved tightly against her mother’s door and claim the jackpot behind Door #3.

This post was originally written November 3, 2006 for the private blog of my writing group, Novel-ties.

Last night I met someone from a previous writing class for dinner for the first time. Instead of the usual lies about how well we were doing, we each told the truth. Her partner of 20 years is leaving and I am still adjusting to the loss of my stepson.

These truths made me think of how writing functions as rage therapy. On the page, I’m free to be as murderous, as depressed, as dramatic and as pitiful as my psyche needs to be. I can trust time and my editor eye to hone those distractions away as I progress through drafts until the kernel of truth about the trauma reveals itself. Perhaps I thought I was sad when I’m really relieved. Maybe I can throw away my thesaurus now, because bereft is the exact right word for this pain.

Trauma also gives us empathy for our characters. It’s no mistake that a character I’m writing now has lost her child. I can let her be tortured by my memories, while I’m free to live my life and forget for a while what I lost. She’s carrying that burden for me. And, if I choose, I can change her outcome. The delete key could give her back her daughter’s warm hug, silken hair and belly laugh. I could give her grandchildren and a happy old age instead of the regret.

But for now I need her to suffer with me and for me. It’s selfish, but I’m not sorry.

This post was originally written October 24, 2006 for the private blog of my writing group, Novel-ties.