Recipe for Writing

They say that life imitates art.  Some also say art imitates life.  They say when you write to write what you know.  Clichés that are repeated so often they must lose legitimacy in the redundancy… and yet… the more I write, the more I know they are true.

There is also the philosophy that some stories have to wait for the right time and place – even if inspiration comes along 15 years too early.  I always resented being told I didn’t have enough experience in my twenties.  And now, I kind of get it.  I had to live through certain emotions and heartbreak and … experiences to make this novel a better story.

So I don’t know if it is the first sentence or the second that has shaped the reality of my November.  I spend my weekends at the house in which I spent the end of my childhood, fixing up some of the wear and tear and seeing it with a new set of eyes.  And… a whole lot of love.  It has become a sanctuary… a country retreat where I can write, sit in front of the fire, and sip coffee on a Saturday morning.  There is a sort of self discovery through the reacquaintance with this property and the quiet of the nature that surrounds it.  Not necessarily a piece of me that got lost… but that went to sleep for a few years while I lived closer to the city.

And I don’t know which opening sentence applies to the greatest influence of my current writing life.  I lost my grandmother this fall… something I expected to happen this year.  Something I knew was an inevitable sadness my life would have to face.  And yet the details of the last few months have inspired a more honest storytelling to my novel.  It also inspired me to start telling the story of my own life – my own heritage – and the woman who planted that seed of storytelling in my imagination long ago.

I just sorted through the recipe boxes that are the fodder for my blog, searching for a dessert bar to bring to a meeting tomorrow.  I am on the fifth recipe for this project of family history through cooking… and while looking for the famous peanut butter bar ingredients, I discovered the treasure hunt that my grandmother left me in these two boxes.

Almost every recipe is annotated with a source.  Some are impersonal like Good Housekeeping.  Some are familiar like my aunts and cousins.  Some are vaguely familiar like other older deceased relatives.  Some are… a mystery.  Names of people that are connected to my family, but I don’t recognize.  Or a descriptive word to an ingredient foreign to my 21^st century mega grocery shopping experience memory.  

My eyes welled up as I sorted through these cards – finding really great titles like Happy Day Cake or Tropical Gingerbread… and a whole lot of inspiration for my blog, Soup and Shells (which you should read and like on Facebook if you haven’t already).

But the other truly extraordinary gift of discovery is that… well, it isn’t a contrived storytelling gimmick to say that a modern thirtysomething woman can actually find something of herself through the story of her grandmother.  That it isn’t selling a woman who lived through the 20^th century short by telling her story through the kitchen.  These were major concerns I had about my novel.  Things that I thought made it unbelievable… or cliché.  Now I realize it is a chance to write what I know

divided from herself and her fair judgment

A few weeks ago… or maybe it was months (gosh, summer, you sure do fly by)… I watched My Week with Marilyn.  I liked it well enough to troll through youtube for clips of Kenneth Branagh interviews… which led me to watching Laurence Olivier interviews… and some place in there, interviews with Vivien Leigh.  I started reading Olivier’s autobiography over fifteen years ago.  I didn’t finish it because I thought he was a pompous jackass who gave himself credit for Leigh’s successes.  But it was one of the first times I started to comprehend the story of the tragic British actress.

Hers is not a happy biography – if you buy into that sort of thing, part of the curse of all that had to do with Gone with the Wind.  I watched those interviews and put it in the back of my mind to revisit those biographies when I had more time.  This weekend I had a few stolen hours  -well, hours when I was less interested in learning bits of dialogue in a Mississippi accent and sought to find any other mental distraction. So, I picked up the book I am reading to inspire my own writing.  There is a scene in Tigers in Red Weather when Vivien Leigh is mentioned.  Indeed in reference to Gone with the Wind when, according to a bit of conversation in that novel, Vivien Leigh went crazy.  You can see it in her eyes.  I don’t know.  Can you?

I thought about that.  I thought about that because of those youtube interviews.  Because I have a scene in my novel that references Gone with the Wind and reveals the Mommy Dearest crazy of one of my main characters.  It’s not a pleasant scene… but I love it.  Because I love Helen’s crazy.  It’s, got to admit, fun to write.  

I’m not trying to make light of crazy here.  I know mental illness – or even just the struggle of the common person to cope with life’s difficulty is no laughing matter.  And yet I find myself actually contemplating that as a writer and as an actress.  When is the portrayal of crazy laughable?  When is it honest and a compelling part of the story?  And how does the fact these characters are women determine that place on the spectrum?

I have been thinking a lot about this on my commute, as I try to repeat those Mississippi lines of a hysterical breakdown into memory.  I stumble through that part of my role… because I don’t like hysterical crazy.  Not that I didn’t have my moments as a child and teenager.  Maybe I’m bored with it because I know it’s all noise and little substance.  It’s not as powerful… or mysterious as a look in the eye.  I don’t want to write Helen that way.  She has her intense moments, but no throwing of furniture and pulling out her hair.  Or crying.

I remember another interview with a famous British actress from about 15 years ago.  Helena Bonham Carter was discussing her role as Ophelia.  She said something I have heard in various interpretations over the years.  That crazy should be portrayed like drunkenness.  The drunk never wants to show off his intoxication.  He will do everything to prove he isn’t drunk… and in the slip up, that is where it is obvious.  I hate seeing over the top drunk on the stage.  It is seldom funny and so taxing on my attention span.  The funny is the tiny little reveal, even if it ends up being a huge pratfall.

Likewise, I have no interest in Ophelia if she is a cry baby.  The more she shrieks, the less I will rate that interpretation of my favorite play.  Her madness should have as much a question as Hamlet’s.  Wailing and screaming are dead giveaways.  

So I don’t know.  I know I’m not playing Helen on the stage in this play.  Her path to breakdown has a vague parallel to Babe, but not really.  They are two separate animals of creativity.  Two different interpretations of crazy.  But… I don’t know… I find it more fascinating when I’m asking myself, did those green eyes look a little bit mad?  At the very least, I find the character who noticed them much more compelling… and very likely going to distract me again from reviewing lines tonight.

Movies, Television, and Mystery

I have two barometers for deciding if a movie is good.  1. I don’t squirm and feel the need to constantly shift in my chair to manipulate the length of my legs into comfort.  2. I’m still thinking about it the next day.  Those are purely subjective elements and undoubtedly something with which no one else shall see the film in exactly the same way.  They are emotional… and not intellectual.  Not even having anything to do with the craft that I still appreciate in the art of cinema.  I will give a movie a lot of props for cinematography even if the plot is lame.  Or sound.  Or costumes.  Or the cleverness of working in a plot device used by hundreds or thousands of writers before.  But if it passes those first two tests, there is a strong likelihood I will spend the money to see it again before it streams on Netflix.

I believe those are both indicative of good writing.  That there is a story that helps me lose myself, intoxicates my imagination so much I don’t focus on anything else.  Then there is a drive to revisit the story and analyze how it all got pieced together with the special effects and glossy, unrealistically beautiful actors.  I know that’s writing by committee most of the time… but it’s still impressive when a money making machine churns out something that compelling.

I feel that way about some television, too.  Although, I’ll change the restless in my seat indicator for the fact I will sacrifice another hour of sleep just to watch that next episode… or in the case of some… the impatience to watch that next episode.  Television, unfortunately does suffer a longevity problem… in that it all too frequently craves longevity… and outlives its usefulness.  But the first three seasons of a tightly written show are usually crack to my storytelling mind.

I deliberately waited until my birthday to see The Dark Knight Rises this year.  I don’t find myself with a lot of spare time to go to movies… but actually I think that’s because earlier this summer I was so beguiled with the show Damages that I wanted to use my un-scheduled nights to go home and voraciously consume the unraveling of its mysteries.

Both were tightly written suspense pieces.  Again, written by committee and featuring high product placement people and ideas.  There was definitely formula to both, stories that I felt ever so clever for determining the outcome before I got there… but the satisfaction came with not knowing exactly how I was going to be led there.

I wasn’t disappointed in either (although I have yet to watch Damages beyond that magical third season, so who knows?).  And I think about that pleasure ride of getting to the end of a story and seeing all the pieces fall neatly into place without seeming contrived or ridiculous.  I think about it as I start to weave together all these various stories of my narrators.  I know their stories from beginning to end… and want to decide what threads to give readers to make the tapestry of the final chapter (if this book actually has chapters) a logical, beautiful picture.  Not a hasty paint by number generic image.

So I think about these most recent viewings… and wonder what kept me in my seat.  What makes me want to go see The Dark Knight again not even 24 hours later?  Even when I found something sort of predictable, I was so delighted when it fell neatly into revelation.  I think there is something like that in this novel.  Maybe it’s only obvious to me because I’ve known it for 15 years.  But maybe I want it to be sort of obvious… and just leave the mystery of how.

Indeed, I sometimes find that question as well as its cousin why, the most compelling mysteries.  There’s no need to proclaim the smug of knowing the obvious.  That’s life.  We know what happened. We know when things happened.  But we can never really understand or grasp the why or how did it get to this point?  Maybe, really, those are the mysteries of plot that keep my legs from twitching and my brain wanting to go back and see it again.

And maybe in movies and television… and books… they are the best mysteries.  Because in books and movies and television we can answer the why and how.  It’s not so easy in real life.

An Incidental Perspective and a scene

There’s a blessing and a curse to resuscitating a manuscript I started writing in 1997.  I have a lot of scenes already written, a framework that more or less still works… and I’m living in the house that inspired it all 15 years ago.  I am actually quite impressed with some of the writing from my early-ish twenties… and the other spurt of inspiration that came in 2002.  Some of it… man, until I edited An Ever Fixed Mark, I was completely unaware of my rather bad habit of passive voice… and these earlier scenes are loaded with it.  The 2002 version, though, was written just after I moved back from London and was entrenched in the film world.  Some of those scenes are very vivid… and in my mind... cinematic.

But all in all, I think the third time is the charm.  I have more perspective now to complete this story.  And wouldn’t you know it?  Life has thrown me a couple art imitations in this last year that allow me to inform the characters with some honest emotion and thought process.

And then there is just the way the world has changed.  This is almost incidental to the story itself… but the very fact it is almost incidental is what makes it so very cool.  In this version, I decided to make one of the main characters a lesbian.  The fact I can write scenes about her wanting to get married would have been very different had I written them ten years ago.   That really doesn’t give away anything to this very layered, convoluted story… but it is something that made me smile on one of my very long car rides when thinking about how this book has grown in a decade and a half.

Anyway, chew on that if you will… or won’t.  But here’s another random, out of sequence scene from that 2002 version.  It's still a rough cut.  I did my best to delete the passive voice… but I definitely like the movie scene feel to it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Agnes removed a sheet from the oven and carefully separated the cabbage turnovers with a spatula.  She put them onto a platter for Ginny.  Beatrice came down the steps and sat in the chair next to Evie, who was quietly coloring a picture.

“I don’t think Helen has aged a day since her wedding,” Beatrice sighed.

“Is she dressed?” Mavis took  the empty sheet from Agnes to the sink.

“Ready for her grand entrance,” Beatrice accepted a glass of water from Agnes.  “’Course I wasn’t much help to her.  Living out here so long, I’ve lost touch with fashionable make-up and hair styles.”

“Can I go see Mummy?” Evie put down her crayon.

“She said she would be down here in a minute,” Beatrice sipped her water.

Evie pouted and went back to her picture.  Peter and Andy clumped down the steps into the kitchen going immediately to Ginny’s platter.

“Oh no you don’t,” Mavis said firmly.  “You had your dinner a half hour ago!”

“I’m a growing boy,” Andy hovered a hand over the tray.

“Mummy!” Evie shouted as Helen entered the kitchen.  Agnes looked up at her.  Beatrice was right.  Helen looked like she was still twenty-five, in a long black gown that hugged her hourglass figure and hair hanging in big, loose curls over her bare shoulders.

Helen knelt to hug Evie.  “Well?” she looked at Andy.

“No one’s wearing your dress, Mum.”

“What is Mrs. Hilden wearing?”

“Something purple and puffy.”

“You look pretty, Mummy,” Evie grabbed her mother’s fingers.  “Can I come to the party?”

“You and Andy can make an appearance at seven,” Helen eased out of Evie’s clutch and straightened her posture.  “Just for an hour.  Then bedtime.”

“Can Peter and I go back to the sta…”

“No more spying – or any of your usual mischief,” Helen smoothed out her gown over her hips.  “This is very important for your father.  You know that, Andrew.”

“Yes, Mom,” Andy cast his eyes down as he nodded.

“Seven o’clock,” Helen looked at her children before going back up the stairs.

Agnes turned back to the stove, pushing Helen’s avoidance of her out of her mind.

Ginny came back with the empty platter just as the next sheet came from the oven.  Agnes relished the serendipity of timing just as the skillet on the stove started to burn.  She salvaged the bacon and stopped the smell of smoke from escaping the kitchen.  She hardly noticed the time pass or the comings and goings of the children as she found herself completing one thing only to busy her hands and concentration with the next.  Mavis was wonderfully helpful, restraining from her usual comments and suggestions.  Beatrice remained stationed at the sink, washing the continually growing pile of dishes.

Agnes felt the frenzy slow down and took a moment to arrange a pretty garnish on Ginny’s next platter.  Ginny came through the door followed by Andy and Peter.

“…had a terrible row about this party, about the whole summer, really.  Mom said she didn’t want these people in her house –“ 

“Andrew Bradshaw Jr.!” Beatrice stiffened her voice.  “You know better than to gossip about your parents.”

“Aw, I was just telling Peter why Dad…”

“Your father is a congressman.  His business doesn’t need to be spread all over this house.”

“Yes m’am.”

“You and Peter have a half hour before bed.  Why don’t you go listen to the radio in the sitting room?  I must be getting old,” Beatrice laughed when they left the room.  “I just scolded that boy for being a gossip.  Of course, I can’t deny my curiosity.  Sounds like there is trouble in paradise.”

Mavis bit her lip, meeting Beatrice’s eyes.  She turned around and went back to buttering the pastries.  Agnes looked at Beatrice, wondering if she would say more.  Agnes couldn’t help but feel a twinge of gladness knowing that Helen was angry with her husband.

Beatrice brought Evie back to the kitchen before beckoning the boys from the sitting room.  She brought them all upstairs to bed.  Mavis and Ginny helped Agnes with the rest of the cleaning.  Mavis went up to make sure all the beds were ready for the guests.  Then Ginny left to go out with Sam.

At long last it was quiet again.  The dull hum of the crowd in the living room slowly dissipated.  The music was turned off.  The chaos of the kitchen had gone down the drain with the soapsuds that washed away the remnants of Agnes’ work.  There were a few plates of leftovers in the refrigerator.  It seemed a small result to all the work of the evening.  Agnes could not believe it was all ended.

She went upstairs to bed.  She checked the hallway of bedrooms to see if any guest was wandering in search of something.  After changing and washing up, she went back down the stairs to shut off the light.  The back door was open.  A smell of cigarette smoke came through the screen.

The smell didn’t startle Agnes.  Many of the party guests smoked throughout the evening.  The clouds of tobacco came into the kitchen every time the door opened.  But Agnes could also smell lilies of the valley, a combination of scents that reminded her of sitting on the terrace in Helen’s lap. 

Helen came through the door to see who was there.  She leaned against the doorframe, leaving her shoe in the door to dump the ashes outside.  She looked like a scene in one of Ginny’s favorite movies.

“Helen… I didn’t know you were still up,” Agnes broke the awkward quiet of her discovery.  “Did you need something?”

“No,” Helen slowly turned her head to look outside.  “Did Beatrice stay?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  I imagine Peter is in Andy’s room, then.”

“Yes.”

“The Wainwright family is coming tomorrow.  Gertrude had a doctor’s appointment this morning and was afraid she wouldn’t be well enough for the party.  Or at least that is the excuse she made to be the latecomer,” Helen took another drag from her cigarette.  “They have two little girls.  They can stay in Evie’s room.  Do you have the extra bed made up?”

“Yes – and the spare cot from upstairs.”

“Good.  Oh, here’s the list of breakfast requests.”  She pulled a piece of paper from the front of her dress.

“Oh,” Agnes wanted Helen to say something about the food.

“That’s all,” Helen looked back outside.  “You must be tired.  You should get some rest.”

“Here you are,” Andrew came through the door from the living room.  “It went well?”

Helen sucked on her cigarette.  “Everyone went to bed happy.”

“They did,” he went closer to his wife.

Helen offered him her cigarette.  He breathed out the smoke and saw Agnes.  “Agnes, you did an excellent job.  Mavis and Bea, too.  I am truly grateful.”

Agnes nodded, feeling Helen’s eyes look at her.  She wished Helen would say something like that.  Instead, she took back her cigarette.  “Will you be going to bed happy?” Andrew moved her hair behind her ear.  Helen looked up as she finished the cigarette.   “It was a good party, wasn’t it?” Andrew spoke into her exhale.

“Except for Dottie Meyer throwing herself at my husband.”

 “Me and every other man in the room,” Andrew laughed.   “That isn’t fair, Helen.  Not when you’ve been wearing this dress all night.”

Agnes saw him slip his hand around her waist, fingering the zipper under her arm.  Helen moved in to kiss him.  It was as though Agnes wasn’t there at all.  She immediately felt embarrassed and awkward.  She moved quietly back to the stairs and went up to her room.

stopping to see the rose

“If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers...” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince 

I confess I’ve been rather idle on this week off from work.  I accomplished some minor household chores.  I picked up my farm share and even cooked up some excess vegetables – some even in the name of celebrating the country’s birthday.  But mostly I’ve occupied the greater portion of my week with Netflix or skulking on the meaningless Internet.

The one good thing is some of that computer time has actually been an increased word count on my current manuscript.  It’s still a jumble of plot and narratives… but those are quite possibly shaping themselves into… dare I say it?  A story.  That said, today I still felt the dreamlike conscious this week’s reality yields.  The other reality is hinting at a re-entrance… and then, of course… the reality we all stay in a dream to avoid seeped in around lunchtime.

Even when you’ve had months to anticipate the inevitability, the exit of a soul from our world is sad.  Especially when it is the soul of a beautiful woman who encouraged artists, young and young at heart - a neophyte writer too shy to admit to her co-workers that she, too, was attempting to earn a living in the creative arts that didn’t require databases and babysitting details.  A magnificent woman who was a writer in her own poetic right.

And then, the universe showed some poetry.  A collision of observations that may or may not be coincidence, but one that compelled me to get the camera and take a snapshot of one magical moment.

At the side of my porch is a rose bush that due to neglect and a brutal, premature blight of snow got trimmed almost to its roots.  I had hoped the thing would re-grow in time… a year or two as it may have required for that initial bloom years ago.  But the hot June sun and generous rain has allowed the greenery to stretch back towards the porch floor.  And then, early this evening when I decided a breath of cool New England summer air was a necessary pause, I saw the bud readying itself for a bloom.

 

Maybe this has nothing to do with the events of my week.  Or maybe it is simply a glimpse of fragile beauty to contrast the sad news today.  Or maybe I make a bigger deal of this simply because I have a horticulture defying rose bush embedded in a plot of my current novel… and seeing that it isn’t such a leap of faith to contemplate things validates my fiction.

Or maybe it is just a moment.  A moment of beauty and nature and art and inspiration.