Insignificance & Inspiration

As negative as the the first word in the title may sound, this is a positive blog! I returned from vacation this week, having visited Ireland and Scotland. In Ireland, we rented a car and made a circuit from the eastern coast at the capitol city of Dublin and drove clockwise around the country before ending up in Belfast. We visited Waterford, Cobh, Killarney, Galway, Inis Mor (largest of the Aran Islands), Sligo, Donegal, Derry, as well as driving through many smaller towns.

We all know the U.S., as a nation, is young in comparison to other countries. But, I was struck by the scope of the wonders of Ireland. The Cliffs of Moher (five miles along the coast) in County Clare rise up from the ocean and take one’s breath away.

The Cliffs of Moher

When standing at the top of one, you can look out across the sea and envision earlier times. Early people would use currachs, and those small boats would buck the waves, while the people would look up at the cliffs and hope they wouldn’t be dashed against them in the tides.

As we headed out of the Republic of Ireland north to the UK part of Ireland in County Antrim, we traveled the Giant’s Causeway. The scientific explanation is a series of huge basalt columns formed from a volcanic eruption. Myth states that the Giant Finn MacCool built a walkway to get to Scotland for a battle. I prefer the myth because to see these “steps” plunges me back to that time. I can see Finn taking

“giant” steps on each flat surface.

I’ve chosen only two of the natural wonders of Ireland to put into perspective how insignificant one feels when seeing such magnificence for the first time. But, rather than feeling diminished, I feel inspired. What stories these rocks could tell; what things they’ve witnessed over the centuries!

We spoke with locals, dined at pubs, and had an unforgettable journey in so many ways. I came back refreshed and energized, eager to tell stories in my voice.

Oh, and if you can see the tiny L-shaped island at the very top northern part of the map, it is Rathlin Island. Rathlin Island is in the very first book I attempted, a historical set in 1560. My wonderful son and daughter-in-law surprised me with a ferry trip to visit it. The island is only 7 miles total in size, so we took a tour bus around it and I could clearly envision where my hero and heroine would camp, where the outlawed druids had hidden from persecution, and from which coast the h/h could set out to Scotland. So excited, I might go back to that book and rewrite it. Trust me, as the first one I wrote, it sorely needs it!

 

But … it’s for Research!

My best friend has always been kind of secretive about his love life. We’ve known each other for over 20 years and it’s only since I’ve started writing that he’s begun sharing his adventures (and misadventures) in the dating world. Why is he opening up now? Well, he prefaces every story about sketchy dudes on Grindr or awkward encounters with former boyfriends and their new lovers with: “Here’s some research material for you …”

I love it. His stories are hilarious and fascinating and way outside my own dating experience. And because he now sees everything he does as potential plot fodder for me (even though it’s really not relevant at all to my current WIP), he no longer guards this part of his life quite so jealously. Because he sees every experience, every encounter, as research material, I’ve started looking at my own life in the same way.

I believe I’ve mentioned before that I have some pretty darn strong hermit tendencies. One would think that writing would make those even stronger, but I’ve found that it’s the opposite. A high school acquaintance is getting married in Las Vegas? I have to go. It’s research. An old friend offers to buy me a plane ticket to Tennessee because he’s feeling nostalgic? Research. A spring-time hike with people who are much fitter and more adventurous than I am? Research! None of these things are directly related to anything I’m writing. I can’t use them as tax deductions. But they’re all things that I’ve done in the last year that scared me, where my immediate inclination was to say “Thanks, but no. I’m good. I’ll just sit here in my cabin with my cats and quietly continue to age.”

Two weeks from today I’ll be in Chicago for my ten year law school reunion. I am terrified and, honestly, if I wasn’t a writer now, I probably wouldn’t have gone. But there are loads of people and experiences there waiting for me. I will reconnect with people whose lives have diverged sharply from my own. I’ll eavesdrop on conversations about nannies and the pressures of being a law firm partner. I’ll drink wine at the Art Institute while chatting with people comparing working in the White House with working for the NFL. I’ll get on the El and be reminded of the press of bodies during a morning commute. I’ll sit in the back of a cab and remember what it feels like to be pushed up against a giggling friend on naugahyde-covered broken springs by the force of a quick left turn. It’s life. It’s research.

What about you? Have you found that writing has changed the way you look at new experiences? Ever justified doing something outside of your comfort zone as research?

 

Realer than Real

I once helped a friend commit identity fraud on a foreign government. Now, if you knew me at all you’d think I was lying about that. I’m a rule follower, a former lawyer for heaven’s sake. But somewhere in the depths of some small South East Asian country’s immigration files there is evidence that, when push came to shove, when I was tired and hot and grumpy I most definitely did not follow the rules.

Now, we didn’t mean to do it. My friend Bailey* is a lawyer and a rule follower too. But when we got off the plane and saw that we’d have to get our visas before we made our way to baggage claim we were stumped. I had an envelope full of passport photos in my carry-on, but her photos were in her checked luggage, out of reach and unavailable. We did the only thing we could think to do. In a country still bearing the scars of rule by a military junta, where, weeks later a taxi driver would ask us if we wanted to go to the genocide museum or the torture museum (answer: NEITHER thanks), I gave Bailey one of my photos and we got in line.

Now, Bailey and I really don’t look much alike. We’re fair-skinned and have grey-streaked brown hair but that’s where the resemblance ends. She’s got brown eyes, mine are blue. Our faces are entirely different shapes. And yet we stood in line and watched a row of five officials, one after the other, look at my visa application and pass it on, then look at hers, and pass it on. Applications with different names, different passports, but the same photo attached. We were standing right there. They looked at us, and looked at the photos, and looked at our passports, and just kept passing those applications down the line until they were back in our grubby, guilty hands. And then we collected our luggage and left the airport and vowed not to speak of it again until we’d left the country.

Myanmar was not the country we entered illegally. But isn’t it pretty?

So, what lessons did I learn from this little experience? (1) When in doubt, carry on. (2) Cross-racial identifications really are as difficult and unreliable as researchers claim. (Shorter: we really all look the same to them. “We” and “them” being any different racial or ethnic groups.) (3) That just because something may have happened in real life doesn’t mean it would fly in fiction. I write romantic suspense and I could never expect to write a scene like this and get away with it. Nobody would believe that border officials would be that lax.

What about you, have you ever had an experience where you think: “God, I wish a character could get past this as easily as I just did” but know that no one would think it was realistic? Why does fiction have to be more believable than real life?

*Name changed to protect at least one of the guilty parties. Oh god. We are both so guilty. I still can’t believe we did this.

 

A Kindle Way of Life

Christmas before last, my husband gave me a Kindle Fire. Sure, I had thought about having an e-reader one day, but I was quite happy with having an actual book in my lap. My dream was always to write a book I could hold in my hands. I’m grateful I got to have just that before we all turn electronic one day.

After making my New Year’s resolution to exercise last year, I noticed that I could multi-task by using my exercise bike and utilize Facebook at the same time. Once I finished checking in, I could read email or an e-book while cycling away. I also use my Kindle to look for information on the internet.  Sometimes, I get quicker results than on my computer.

This past year I had some major editing to do on a manuscript, so I looked for a couple of craft books for inspiration. The two books I chose were available in e-book format, so I opted for the electronic version mainly because of the cheaper price. A nice surprise was that I could lay my small kindle next to my computer instead of two books. I’d zip through the pages of the reader as I worked and my husband got tired of hearing about how convenient this arrangement was.

Several authors have free or discounted e-books so I download them on my Kindle. I get excellent buys on books and easily store them on my Kindle, verses filling my already full bookcase or end tables. I like that my books are more affordable as e-books, too.

I look at my pile of magazines and think that I will start ordering them in e-book format, so I won’t have them lying around, and will be at hand on the Kindle I have in my bag when I’m out and about, or travelling to see my family. When I do travel my Kindle is smaller and lighter than my computer, and it is WiFi accessible.

Just before Christmas break, I worked with a high school student who likes to read but struggles with vocabulary/hard words. To help her understand, we looked at the other words in the sentence before and after to help her understand the meaning of the word. Her eyes lit up when I told her that on a Kindle you can touch the word on the page and the meaning comes up.

I love to read to my grandchildren. I started thinking that if I could have my favorite children’s e-books on hand where ever I am, then I’ll always have the opportunity to read to them while not having to carry the copies around.

I found some free and inexpensive children’s e-books. This past Christmas I got a chance to read them to my grandchildren. I did read hard cover books to them while they were here, and it was perfect just before bedtime. Yet, in the living room, I noticed how easy it was to pull the kids into my lap when they were fussing, getting bored, or tired, and open the Kindle Fire and read. The kids and I enjoyed the color pictures and how they slid across the screen. In my opinion, at that moment, they enjoyed the e-book version as much as the hard cover books.

It took me a little while to understand the value of my husband’s gift, but now I consider it to be a gift that keeps on giving.

 

The Art of Writing Creepy

October is here and it’s the month for Halloween and all things creepy. I’ve always been intrigued by scary stories. Why does one have you on the edge of your seat and another fall flat?

Authors devote endless hours to creating the perfect villain and a believable plot, but when it comes to writing creepy, success comes from focusing on details.

Stephen King and Alfred Hitchcock made their names selling all that’s eerie. Yet, perhaps their true genius lies in creating perfectly normal worlds. Their characters eat Doritos and drink root beer.  Their lives are not so different from our own. So when some small detail changes or something seems out of place, we notice.  When they focus on a bird on the fence or the color of a card in a hobo’s shirt pocket, the tension instantly rises.

Last summer, my family visited a tourist town in Tunisia. We spent ten days enjoying the beautiful beaches, touring the ruins of Carthage, and shopping in the old souk in Tunis. The weather was perfect. The sea was calm. On the surface, it was paradise.

Yet, every single person who went on that trip agreed that the place was really creepy.  The air just seemed to crackle with conflict. No one was surprised when riots broke out in front of the American Embassy, and an American school in Tunis was set on fire three months later.

I wanted to capture that uneasy feeling in my writing, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what caused it.

Then I recalled my first impression in the Tunis-Carthage International Airport. Mangled bits of suitcases revolved on the creaky baggage carousel. A twisted handle here.  A crushed wheel there.  A smashed lock teetered on the edge of the otherwise empty conveyor belt.

Ridiculously unimportant details, yet I still remember them today.

I polled my fellow travelers: When exactly did you decide that place was disturbing? What was it that made you uncomfortable there?

Here’s what they said:

“The way the women in hijab whispered when we walked by.”

“That dead kitten lying in the middle of the market.”

“The waiters’ pinched mouths.  The smirk of the guy at the Internet café who always told us the Internet had just been shut off right before we got there. The way their body language always said the exact opposite of their words.”

“That guy who made us pay him for directions and then intentionally sent us down a dead end alley.”

More ridiculous details, yet you definitely get the feeling that these people did not like tourists. In a town where the economy is entirely based on tourism, isn’t that  disturbing? Aren’t you surprised we came out of that dead end alive?

I would love to hear your stories. What is the creepiest place you’ve ever been? Did it look perfectly normal on the surface? What details made you think it was eerie?