Plotting Act One

Working on my next novel today, called "The Heart of a Lie." I have this fantastic book called "The Writer's Journey," by Christopher Vogler, that helps me with plotting. Act One (the first third of the book) is coming along rather nicely, and I'm especially intrigued by the Mentor I've chosen to guide my Hero, Esther, into a new life and a new place.

Here are the steps to the Hero's Journey, as outlined by Vogler, expanded by Joseph Campbell in his mythic books, and based on the ancient Hero's Journey from Greek and Roman mythology:

Act I:

• Ordinary World
• Call to Adventure
• Refusal of the Call
• Meeting with the Mentor
• Crossing the First Threshold

These four steps comprise the first act of my story, as I followed the journey in "Daniel's Garden," too. That story had several mentors - Daniel's dead father who guided his thoughts and inner decision, his father's law partner Mr. Gage who provided Daniel with a glimpse of the soldier life he was to undertake, and his mother, who proved to be an anti-Mentor, trying to keep him from going forth to be a soldier.

In my new story, "The Heart of a Lie," Esther Perry's ordinary world is a farm in Bayview, Maine. It's October 1868, three years after the Civil War has ended, a war that claimed her exuberant father's life. Esther and her sister Lara are just finishing with the last of the fall harvesting before winter, when her mother succumbs to a long-term illness.

On her deathbed, her mother issues a "call to adventure" by asking Esther to post her obituary in the Portland Press Herald. Esther is confused by this request, since she's never been to Portland, but in the next stage, "the refusal of the call," her sister convinces her to do it. Esther's refusal is rather slight, but Daniel's refusal was huge and required an enormous shift in his consciousness. He was scared by war's costs and didn't want to fight, to begin with.

After their mother's death, the two Perry girls - Esther and Lara - find themselves orphaned and burdened with massive debts on the farm. Their greedy neighbor and his slimy lawyer want the farm, but Esther lets go of servants and sells furniture to get some money. While cleaning out the house, she discovers a small strange wooden box with no markings or way to open it. Intrigued, she decides to keep it.

Two weeks after the funeral, the "meeting with the Mentor" stage occurs when haughty Lucia Curtis shows up on the doorstep proclaiming to be their mother's sister. She read the obituary in the newspaper and has been encouraged by her husband to offer a new home on a temporary basis. The girls have six months to live rent-free until they must secure their own shelter. Esther reluctantly accepts and sells the farm to her neighbor.

Thus, Act One concludes with Esther packing meagre belongings (including her beloved leather music folio) into a carpetbag and joining her sister and new aunt on a journey to Portland.

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Novels are not random - they adhere to basic storytelling guidelines set down by Aristotle three thousand years ago. But the trick to writing a great novel is to balance this ancient formula with strong characters, sensory-rich settings, and deep motivations. Otherwise, the reader simply won't care. And a reader not caring spells death to writing. Boredom is the enemy I fight against.

The Hero's Journey takes the daunting task of plotting a new story and breaks it down into a road map for me to follow. Charting the course of a new novel becomes exciting, since I get to accompany my characters on their journeys and decide what becomes of them. Except for some minor plotting details I need to tweak in Act Two, I know how this story will end ...

But that is for another time. :)

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The Prisons of Dickens

I've been watching "Little Dorrit," a BBC production that aired on Masterpeace Theatre last winter. In this Dickens novel, a young woman named Amy Dorrit and her father William Dorrit live in the Marshalsea Debtors Prison in London.

I watched "Bleak House" the year before, knowing almost nothing about it. Dickens wrote a variety of stories - quaint Christmas tales, coming-of-age stories about boys like Oliver Twist or David Copperfield, mysteries, ghost stories, and large complicated novels like "Little Dorrit" or "Bleak House."

One striking similarity I've noticed between "Bleak House" and "Little Dorrit" is the theme of prisons. "Bleak House" doesn't have a physical prison like the Marshalsea, but Mrs. Dedlock (what a great name!) is 'locked' in a prison: her own home. Also, in "Bleak House", people are imprisoned by the enduring Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce case, which consumes entire lives and destroys Richard Carstone.

When Dickens was 12, his father was thrown into a London debtors' prison and he was forced to go to a workhouse to earn money. The circumstances profoundly affected him and he never forgot what happened. The theme of imprisonment shows up again and again in his stories.

Dickens' characters are caught in prison, whether he writes about prisons of money, prisons of love, prisons of class, prisons of poverty, prisons of paperwork, prisons of family, prisons of obligation, prisons of social hierarchy. His characters are either trying to escape prison, accept the prison they live in, or don't even know they're imprisoned.

Dickens experienced his own Paradise Lost when he was 12, but instead of it being tied in with nature like it is for me, he went to prison with his father. So his version of Paradise Lost is the loss of freedom through a prison, of some sort. Mine is the loss of nature and tied with money.

The loss of money can also be a prison, for it traps you and relinquishes freedom. But sometimes the loss of money becomes freedom, because then you’re not tied to previous financial obligations or suffering under debt. I think Dickens and I could have some interesting conversations about the inexplicably deep relationship between money and freedom.

How do you get out of prison? That’s the question Dickens kept asking in his novels, but I'm not sure he was conscious of it. Modern psychology hadn't been invented in the mid-1800's, so without further research I can only guess how deliberate his writing was. But he did stick to his theme, as I see over and over in his stories. Even Ebeneezer Scrooge is locked in the prison of money, shut up in his cold counting house, his miserly personality and his coins as jailer.

How do you get out of prison? With money? With kindness? With a plan? With patience? With the right connections? With the right priorities? With resignation? With acceptance? With pride? With help from friends or family?

I am not in prison any longer, at least a physical prison. I do not have a regular job where I go and sit in a cubicle to make money. But I still live in a prison of my own making, and those are the beliefs in my head.

The most cloying is the one about money. I won’t be able to escape its moldy walls soon, but I can work at it.

How do I get out of prison?

By realizing I’m not in one. And then walking right through the door.

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How "Walden" Ruined Me ... and I'm Glad it Did

I went to Concord yesterday, but I didn't stop by Walden pond. I saw the river where Thoreau paddled, and I went to the museum, where I saw his small chipped green desk with its wonderful slanted top, his simple bedstead that held his rather short frame, and his flute, made simply with carved holes. A few things of his still linger, though the wealth of his life is found between the ears, not in a museum or even at the pond shores. Through his eyes, I find a kinship - not with him, but with a deep vein that runs like solid iron within me. That vein is TRUTH.

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It seems simple to say a book changes your life. Maybe I can't explain how or why I chose to read "Walden" the summer after college, but it was the first book that wasn't assigned and so I was able to interpret it all on my own. Within moments of reading, the words sunk between my own ears, but it wasn't until months later that I realized how insidious his life philosophy had become to me. I couldn't drive down the street without questioning the reason for driving, the reason for having a car, the reason for going where I was going, the reason for needing to spend the money on my debit card, the reason for the house I lived in, the reason for ... simply everything.

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No longer could I sleepwalk through a decision. Why? Henry asked me. Why? He asked again. Why are you doing what you're doing? What is the goal? Do you think that will REALLY bring you what you want? Or is it a social construct ... another's belief ... an advertising ploy you saw on TV ... a long-dead religious idea that holds no weight ... a fear ... a dream? WHY?

To question is to know you're capable of questioning. To question is to feel uncomfortable, to shift from foot to foot, to try an inner dissection. But to truly feel the deep marrow that Henry talked about, I had to feel uncomfortable. I had to question. I had to separate the me that is the real me from the me that is the consumer, the voter, the shopper, the wife, the American, the reader, the audience member, the homeowner, the driver, the Caucasian - whatever other labels I'm supposed to fall under. Because the real me is what remains. A human, with human feelings, human rights, human desires, human needs, and ... most important ... human truths.

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I'm glad I question nearly everything now, though it has cost me comfort, security, passivity, and even feelings of community. Not everyone is ruined by the truth, but those who have been find that their identities have been rebuilt with such personal iron that it can never be toppled again. That metal vein has been tapped, and I will feel it to the core of me the rest of my life.

Why? Henry asked me. So, I answered:

"Because I know it's true. And I can't live any other way."

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How to Create Your Own Happy Ending

I'm free.

I've stepped away from my location-dependent job and am now writing full-time as an article writer. My time is my own. My life is my own. It's incredible. It's what makes life worth living.

I did it.

I created my own happy ending, not just relegated to the pages that flow under my fingers, but a REAL ending. I've taken a risk - the risk to be me. The risk to flourish. The risk to live.

It's surprisingly simple how I did it. Anyone can follow the path I did, though it will be uniquely tailored to you. Anyone can experience this freedom. Anyone can realize they're on the wheel, spinning and spinning, and choose to get off. Anyone can do it.

Here's how:

1. Figure out your passion. It only takes twenty minutes. Take a sheet of paper and imagine a conversation between you and God. What would He say was your purpose? Write at at the top of the page: "I am here on this earth, in this lifetime, to ______________". Stick to your passion. It should be easy, since it is what drives each of us. It's the fuel for the fire.

2. Prioritize your life. Number one priority is passion. Number two priority is funding your passion. Everything else is distraction. It really is. How much does it cost to both live day-to-day and fund your passion? What extraneous expenses can you cut out?

3. Make financial choices to fund your passion. Clear and donate the clutter, trim the extra spending, pay off debt, cut extra expenses. Sometimes these financial choices are easy, sometimes they are not. Keep pushing yourself to find ways to cut and trim and cut some more. Save up six months of expenses. This step takes time, patience, and self-discipline. But it's what gets you off the wheel. The decision to get off the wheel is made every week, in every choice. Don't be passive.

4. Take the big risk. Once your finances are in order and you've got a healthy savings account, it's time to take the risk. Quit your job, sell your car, move somewhere different. All in the name of your passion. Travel the world, raise your kids, run your business, go after the big dream. You can afford it now, so don't hesitate. Get off the wheel and don't look back.

5. Live wheel-free. Watch your expenses and your health, love fiercely, and live your passion. Be curious, learn new things, have fun, sleep, play with your dog, and spread the passion to new people. Start a movement and do what you want. Help others live their own happy endings.

"Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you."
- Emerson

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when old stories aren't just old

I'm quitting my job on Friday, the 13th (how great is that?) and embarking on the next and hopefully largest phase of my life: professional freelance writing. I hope to never take another full-time job outside of my true loves again. I was neither living as an author nor dying as a writer. That kind of half-living, half-dying sucked the life out of me.

A word has kept repeating in my head. Has that ever happened to you? One word, that sticks out above the rest. And for me, that word has been:

ROOTS.

Return to your roots. Go back to where you came from. Don't try to be someone you're not. I've had my life's calling staring me in the face since I was four. Roots. Just be who you are. I love wearing black in the summer. I'll take red and white roses over any trendy du jour flower. I put a picture of Jane Austen in my bathroom, since I think she'd like it in there. It feels amazing - homey, comfy, pure - to be able to stand on your own two feet and declare your uniqueness and weirdness, even if it's only to yourself.

So, in light of this magic word ROOTS, I've been doing some personal excavation. Way back when, before some painful times crowded my innocence, I wrote children's fantasy. Tra-la-la children's fantasy, about princesses and castles and dragons. None of it super serious or deep. But I did craft a rather large yarn for only being ten years old, and its 200 pages or so have been sitting unopened in my computer for about fifteen years. I think kids and young preteens or tweens would really life it.

But the problem is, I don't. I've tried rereading it over the past few months, and I just can't get past the skimming happiness of the thing. It's really too perky for my taste. I don't know how a story can be perky, but it is. I'm not that kind of a writer anymore. I've been to the land of the dead and it changed me.

However, the core nugget of the story is a good one. A girl finds a magical pen and it transports her to a fantasy land, which she then has to save from an evil fairy's curse. She's got some fun animal friends who help her, and there are monsters and a queen, too. It's classic children's fantasy, like Alice in Wonderland or Dorothy Gale in Oz.

The other day I was reading Harry Potter, and I put the book down and thought:

"Now here is a dark story. A story about dark magic, with truly scary scenes in it and a boy whose parents have been murdered. It's not trippy happy, for the most part. There's sorrow, darkness, heartbreak, and evil."

With that in mind, I realized I could make my story darker, even if it did have a 12-year-old heroine and a fantasy setting. Thanks to Harry Potter, it's okay to go dark in a children's story. Gothic tween stories are all the rage right now; look at Twilight, which is about vampires.

I eagerly opened a new Word file and began typing notes about how I REALLY wanted to tell this old story. I had to coax it back into my heart again, with details that make ME interested in it. It's okay that I can't write innocent fiction about sunshine worlds anymore. It's okay that I'm now an adult and have felt what Paradise Lost really is. I can use it. I can apply it. And I can make my story sing its own dark song because of it.

Now, for the first time since I was 12, I'm excited about "The Magic Pen". It feels great. Now, I just have to write it.

Since this old story isn't old anymore.

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