All the Horrible Girliness

Mister Aran has been such an inspiration in some odd ways. Because I do all the driving, I sat in on some of the classes he taught on character design. I learned more about writing characters from an art class than anywhere else. Mister Aran's characters must read immediately. They must be defined in three lines or less. They must be able to work - for example, have bones and muscle and mechanics or whatever is required. There are some cool-looking robot designs out there that, if built, would fall on their asses. Mister Aran thinks out every bolt, every joint, center of gravity. His characters can move.

While walking with The Bug at sundown this evening, I saw a girl on the soccer field at halftime, a goalie, practicing with her coach. He kept kicking balls at her and if he made it in, he'd hoot and raise his arms in ecstasy. I thought, "Yay for you, retard. You made a goal on an eight-year old." Her legs were like saplings. Everything looked too big on her. Her hair was escaping from her ponytail. It was a beautiful moment and I wanted to write about it. So I let my mind wander with it. I told myself about the fading orange stripe at the horizon, the blue above it growing darker, the breeze turning from warm to cool to cold fast as walking into an industrial fridge. And there were rabbits and swarms of gnats and The Cranky Bug, sans nap number two, the little lights on his shoes blinking as he thrashed in the stroller.

But I got bored with it immediately because there was no action. I don't need the girl to take off her cleat and charge the coach with it, but I do need it to go somewhere. And maybe someone else could take the same scene and make something of it, but I couldn't. At least not then. (Though, that cleat idea is pretty good. Maybe later.)

I tried, for a few minutes, to do what David Foster Wallace did (yeah, laugh it up you bastards) in that story about the boy jumping off the high-dive on his birthday. It's one of the most perfect stories I've ever read, and it takes place in the matter of maybe two minutes, but you feel, smell, taste, hear and see every tiny little detail on his way up the big ladder. But what's so fucking genius about it is, the details don't stop the action at all. They propel it somehow. I don't know how! But I have the rest of my life to figure it out.

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It was hilarious to read Chekhov's "Lady with the Pet Dog." It's like my first novel, but good! And short! And true! This is why writers have to read, and read and read and read like madmen, because there is no other way to be original. I sent that shit out to agents and made my notes in my little spreadsheet like a good girl and followed instructions online and in books. I murdered myself doing it. I raced into the house after leaving for ten minutes to check my phone messages. I let the business be the joyful part. Now I just want to get good. I will never be good enough, but I continue to entertain myself. And my shit is so much better now than it was back then, even though I took whole years off.

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There's another thing I learned from Mister Aran: how to separate myself from my work. He doesn't hold his work close to his bosom. He's a commercial artist. Commercial writers need to think the same way, or they end up drinking three bottles of wine with breakfast.

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On another note, I am so fucking glad that Jeffrey won Project Runway. Best season ever.

posted by Samus @ 9:56 PM