a sense of place

a picture of a real life place (The Leonidas Overlook near Eveleth, MN) that inspires a fictional place in my books.

a picture of a real life place (The Leonidas Overlook near Eveleth, MN) that inspires a fictional place in my books.

I love reading stories where the setting is as richly described and well-developed as the characters. Whether it’s an imaginary magical world or a historical time period or a neighborhood in an ordinary city, as a reader, I crave detail. Like a powerful poem, I want the imagery of the world around the story to feel real and true and present.

As a writer, that’s a lot to live up to, especially when writing contemporary fiction, set in the real world. Starting my very first novel, years ago while living in Eugene, Oregon, I struggled to figure out where my main character should live. Write what you know, right? The thought of setting my stories somewhere I didn’t know — New York City, perhaps…isn’t that where all the *important* writers set their stories? — seemed absurd. Even today, with the technological ability to virtually walk through the streets of almost any city, writing a story where my main character lives in a place I haven’t been, a place I haven’t seen in all seasons, haven’t smelled the air and felt the chill of the night air and fought off the mosquitoes and memorized the graffiti…it seems impossible.

At the same time, even writing about the city I was actively living in seemed too dangerous, or maybe too presumptuous. Like, who am I to think I know this place? Even cities I’ve lived in for years are strangers to me outside of me — and my characters are surely living outside of me, the author, who lives a wholly different life in that setting from the one I’m writing.

With that first novel, I settled for leaving out a specific name for the city but basing it pretty much directly on the city I was living in. I’m pretty sure my main character lived in the same apartment as I did, to be honest. I did the same for my next book, except for one place where he actually visited a real club in Oregon. I went on little outings to immerse myself in the places I wanted to write about, sometimes taking photos or scribbling details into my brainstorming notebook, researching on the increasingly sophisticated and available internet, and basically trying my best to make my fictional-real places feel real-real.

In Kiss the Morning Star, the girls follow a road trip path through many real-life places. I’ve been to all of those places, but some of them only years before writing the book. I relied more heavily on photos and research trips and the fact that my characters were not experts on the setting, either. They were passing through. Not ideal to me, but in some ways, Anna and Kat brought their setting along with them in the confines of their car and their tent and their rucksacks and their road maps.

Something kind of cool happened with the writing of KtMS, though. Even though there were only brief mentions (two I think, by name anyway) of the northern Minnesota town where Anna leaves her father when the story begins, that town of Sterling Creek expanded in my imagination (and in pages and pages of prewriting that never made it into the book) and became a real sort of place that encompasses so many other stories and characters in my head. It’s based on and reminiscent of the cluster of small towns in northern Minnesota near the woods where I grew up, but at the same time, it isn’t limited by the real geography or architecture or people who actually live in any of the real towns. This is a freedom I needed, to be able to create my world from layers of reality sliding together into a new, fictional form.

So many features of Sterling Creek are now solid in my mind — Gordon High, where Cassandra’s English teacher makes her write poetry; the Joyful News Bible Church, where Cassandra is thrown together with Drew. I can see the red, rocky trails winding up Plath’s Lookout, where she searches for her brother, and I could draw you a map of the cul-de-sac behind the Sterling Creek Shopping Center that Kayla refers to as “God’s Armpit.” There’s an old mine pit-turned-swimming beach with a camp for young inventors and a ghost story that most of the locals still sort of believe, and a shady paved bicycle path that passes some marshy areas where you can hear the peepers making a racket in the spring.

With each book I’ve written since I finished KtMS, I’ve grown more familiar with Sterling Creek, its people and its places, exploring different families and the parts of this setting that are most special to them. Each story I write builds on this connection, this setting-character growing more and more developed in my mind. Even as some of my characters strike out for other locations, this little town and its surroundings form a part of their stories, their roots.

What settings — fictional and non — feel especially vivid and amazing to you as a reader? As a writer, do you write about real places? Places you’ve never been? Imaginary settings you make up from scratch? A mixture of all those things?

risky business…

Ch. 8: The biggest risk you've taken...

Ch. 8: The biggest risk you’ve taken… (that’s me on a suspension bridge in Montana, I think.)

I’m not, by nature, a big risk-taker. I don’t enjoy uncertainty. I don’t gamble. I don’t get a thrill out of danger, not even in fiction. It’s interesting to me because both of my sons react in about the same way I do when our fictional main character starts taking stupid risks — Jabber starts squirming all over the place making anxious noises, and Monkey tries to shut the book, to shut his ears, or, if we won’t stop reading, he’ll even go to sleep in defense. There are books I know I can’t read, films I can’t watch, all because I know the characters are going to do stupid, risky things, and likely things will not turn out okay in the end, for them or for me. Sometimes (okay, frequently) I page forward during particularly high stakes moments in books so that I can brace myself for the outcome. In life, that is obviously impossible, but even though I’m a pretty flexible person, I do like to have a pretty good idea what to expect out of my future.

I’m a somewhat anxious person, and unnecessary risk makes me profoundly uncomfortable, I guess. I’ve done some stupid things growing up, things that make me feel nervous for my young self now, but I was never the one to initiate these things, at least not in my memory. Left to my own devices, I’m going to run with a safety net. I’m going to have a backup plan and a savings account and a good map.

At the same time, I can see how a good many of the most memorable, possibly the most rewarding, events of my life have resulted from some risk-taking. Telling my good friend that I was in love with him, for example. Risky, but the result is so worth it. Leaving my teaching job and taking off on a road trip without an end destination or plan beyond “get a job when we run out of money” was a little risky — less so because I had saved well and compiled gear and researched to the best of my mostly-pre-internet ability everything I would need to know (also it really helped that I had NO CLUE how difficult the job market in Oregon was at that time!), but it was also the happiest time I can remember, outside of having my kids. And having kids! That’s risky, right? (Yes, I waited to have them until I was securely employed for a long enough time to earn some short term disability, had a stable living situation, and planned out the perfect time of year to take maternity leave so that I would only have to have them in daycare for a month or two as infants…so what?)

One of the best risks I’ve taken was auditioning on a whim for a Shakespeare in the Park production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Eugene, at a park all the way across town where I’d never been, when I hadn’t been on a play audition since my junior year of high school. I got a part (Hermia), but the best outcome of that risk I took was that I found out the stage manager lived several blocks away from me and needed someone to give her a ride to and from rehearsals. She became my first real friend in my lonely search for a new home, someone I still think of as a sister, and a couple years later, she even got ordained for the sole purpose of marrying D and me in the wilderness! When I think about this chain of events, it makes me wonder what risks, big or small, have I taken in RECENT times. It makes me wonder what I’m missing.

In writing, the stories that are the scariest to write, the ones I could easily mess up — in other words, FAIL — are the stories that push me the farthest, as a writer. They’re the stories that are the easiest to walk away from, to tell myself I’m not ready, that I can’t push my characters into that awful mess. Like Jabber, I squirm in my chair and pace the room. Like Monkey, I close the book or retreat into sleep. But when I push on, through the risk, I end up with a book I’m truly proud of, and maybe a character like Cassandra, who stands up and takes a chance.

What about you? What’s the biggest risk you’ve taken?

Find the rest of the Cassandra Survey posts here, where you can see each of the questions Cassandra asks herself throughout the course of the novel Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always.

I was so much older then…

DSCN0407

Speaking of time, a year ago this week I got my first real copies of Kiss the Morning Star! Wow, what a crazy-cool year it has been!

Had my last set of conferences tonight with the students in my eighth grade homebase, a group of students I’ve been in charge of (mentor, teacher, advocate, nag, pencil-supplier, surrogate parent) for three years now. I’ve got nothing profound to say, but it strikes me, watching them interacting with their parents, looking over the list of quarterly goals they’ve set with me since way back when they were eleven, checking their height against the masking tape record of the last three falls and springs — how much I love watching my students transform during these years of crazy change. (And, I hope, helping them navigate those years as best as I can…as best as anyone can.) I care about them so much, as people. As works in progress, growing up. Coming of age.

Sometimes people debate the merits of writing for young adults, or wonder why adults would ever want to revisit the awkward years of adolescence, but I can’t imagine any other time more intensely interesting and full of drama, this awesomely subtle emerging humor, the discovery of new emotions and true empathy, euphoria and torment, passion and despair. Change.

I sort of want to grab each kid by the shoulders and just…I don’t know. Make SURE they know how amazing they are, how full they are of the ability to be the world’s most wonderful human beings.

Then they roll their eyes and talk while I’m trying to teach and say mean things to each other and plagiarize book reports, and my sappy teacher-moment passes and I manage to just tease them a little in a way I hope they know means I think they’re pretty much the best but they’re still not walking out of this room until they push in their chairs and pick up that mess they’ve left.

in your spare time…

Chapter 7: In your spare time...

Chapter 7: In your spare time…

Sometimes people ask me where I find the time to write books, and I always sort of smile and shrug and say I really don’t know. It’s funny because I really do write a lot of the time but I don’t write half as much or as often as some of my writer friends. Teaching takes a lot of time, and it’s not all one kind of time. More often than not, a big part of my teaching process is like my writing process — it sort of rattles around in my brain without regard to the time of day, and little tiny pieces of the big picture come shaking loose.

Luckily, a good chunk of that rattling can happen while I’m doing other things — while I’m taking a relaxing bath, while I’m sorting or folding laundry, while I’m listening to my favorite podcasts (Stuff to Blow Your Mind, This American Life, and Pop Culture Happy Hour, in case you were curious), while I’m out walking around the block at midnight or even re-beginning the couch to 5k walk/running program that I did last summer. So much of my writing is done in between other things.

In my spare time, I like to watch short bursts of netflix marathons (lately re-watching the first season of X-Files, which I know well enough from years of reruns to be able to watch while I grade book reports). I like to shovel sometimes. I went through a knitting phase, and a beading phase, but usually just long enough to make something for everyone I know and then I cycle back to writing.

I like to sketch, but I don’t do it enough, so I found a little moleskine journal recently and dedicated myself to scribbling people and doodles in it. Sometimes I sit and draw small faces with an orange or purple flair pen. Sometimes I sketch in pencil and a delicate starfish emerges. Or a spiky-haired boy and a guitar.DSCN1825

Sometimes I even play the guitar, though again, not enough, and sometimes I laugh at silly pictures on the internet, and sometimes I read poetry and sometimes I even write poetry. I like to drive on country roads and walk in the woods and very occasionally try something dangerous.

How about you? How do you like to spend your spare time?

(Other posts in the Cassandra Survey can be found here!)

very impressive…except when I’m not.

Chapter 6: Your most embarrassing moment...

Chapter 6: Your most embarrassing moment…

I spent the last few days thinking about what I should write about for the next post in the Cassandra Survey, which is looking for my most embarrassing moment. I came to the conclusion that, while I am frequently embarrassed, I get over it pretty easily, usually by laughing at myself.

The times I remember most are the times when I either didn’t know the rules of how to act in a situation or I really wanted to impress someone, like the story I told my students today about the birthday party in fifth grade where I laughed at something my crush said and shot pop through my nose (and as if that weren’t enough, the leftover bubbly soda in my throat began gurgling loudly, making an extraordinarily weird Gremlin-sound for what felt like an eternity!)

A time that encompasses both of those conditions happened when I was thirteen years old, on my way home from Alaska, my first time flying home and navigating the airport on my own. This is a story I wrote during a memoir unit last year for my seventh graders about what I’ll call my most embarrassing moment.

When the airline security worker opened my carry-on bag and dumped the contents onto the conveyor belt, my biggest regret was packing the tampons.  You might think this would be a stupid thing to worry about when everyone else’s attention was focused on the firecrackers, but when you’re thirteen years old and you’re standing in line ahead of the world’s hottest guy — an older guy with a charming smile who has just assured you that you could easily pass for sixteen — the sight of all those personal supplies tumbling out of the pockets of your suitcase is deeply mortifying.

 

“I’m sorry, miss,” the woman said, her face pinched into a stern frown.  “We’re going to have to call the police.”

 

The police?  “My dad gave them to me,” I said, feeling my face burn.  The firecrackers, not the tampons, god.  “He works for the airline!”

 

The frowning woman did not look impressed.  She muttered something into her walkie-talkie, which sputtered with static.  “You know,” she said, in a withering voice, “you have to be at least twelve to fly alone.”

 

I tried to disappear, to sink into a hole in the floor, but it seemed like instead I grew, Alice in Wonderland style, until I drew the eyes of everyone in the busy Anchorage airport, including the hot guy, of course.  And when the cop showed up, looking official with his large hand resting on the butt of his holstered handgun, I thought I might actually die of humiliation.

 

The details that follow are dry and forgettable — the hot guy boarded his own plane while I was busy repeating my address and pleading my ignorance of the rules against bringing firecrackers on a plane, while my private business remained on display for all the passengers to see.  This experience taught me that, not only should I not bring firecrackers onto a plane, but also that, whenever I am trying my hardest to impress someone, inevitably I will face complete and utter humiliation.

 

Eventually I was able to hand over the dangerous contraband and hitch a ride on a speedy motorized cart to my plane, which was about to take off, and the rest of my flight was rather uneventful.  Except for the guy sitting next to me, who claimed to be from the Turkish Air Police and kept insisting that he be allowed to inspect the cockpit, so I felt that it was my duty as a citizen to keep him busy playing ‘Go Fish’ for five hours to keep the plane safe from terrorists.  But that’s another story.

 

So how about you? What’s your most embarrassing moment, and do you notice any themes around the times in your life that you experience embarrassment? Tell your stories in the comments, and then take a look at the rest of the posts in the Cassandra Survey series! :)

um. why is everyone looking at me?

young authors conferenceI gave a couple of workshops or something yesterday at a conference for young authors, grades kindergarten through eighth grade. Thank god they put me with the fifth to eighth graders; I wouldn’t have one single clue what to do with a room full of five-year-olds. I guess I would hope that they know some of the same songs as I do, and that help would arrive before they figured out I can’t carry a tune?

Anyway, I only took one photo at the conference, which was due to the fact that it was sort of a little bit crazy-busy, and I was mostly trying not to give books with swear words out to fifth graders (um, failed at that, I guess…sorry fifth graders, I forgot that to you, sex is a swear word!) and not to spill coffee into my phone (um, also failed at that, with help from an apologetic middle schooler, who then read to me from her awesome story while I mopped up the stage of the auditorium with my handouts on character voice.) This photo was taken after I had hauled a giant crate full of books and a tote bag full of other supplies up seventeen or eighteen flights of stairs (oh, shut up, I know it was only two, but it felt like a lot more, and that stuff was heavy!) and before I had an auditorium full of expectant students and teachers staring at me as though I’m about to give a keynote speech.

Which I was not, definitely not, about to do. Although there is a big part of me that wishes I had had the guts to go ahead and jump up to the mike — maybe I would sing, tell a few jokes, read from my book (I could bleep out the swear words, like sex) — but instead I stared up at them like a scared bunny, looked back at my stuff all lined up next to the speaker’s podium, and darted frantically toward someone who looked like they might know the first thing about anything that was going on.

“They told me I was teaching three small sessions in here. Is there a speaker first? Should I move my stuff?”

The lady gave me a weird look. She was the interpreter for the hard-of-hearing students and wanted to know if she could stand right there while I was speaking without blocking my view. We both laughed when I said I had no idea what was going on.

Rows kept filling with students and teachers kept handing out name tags and pencils and fun anthologies full of their creative writing pieces, and I sort of stuck my stuff off to one side and slurped at my coffee (pre-spill) and gave a weak sort of smile that attempted to make the audience feel okay about the fact that I was not, in fact, going to be speaking to them.

Eventually all of the people figured out where they were supposed to go, and I got to hang out with three small groups of middle school writers to talk about character voice. I handed each of them a book from my crate and had them read the first page and talk about the voice of the main character. What did the character care about? What did she notice? Did he have any immediately noticeable quirks, either in language or personality? We talked about whether, if they were a literary agent, would they ask to see more of the manuscript (most of them would — they were all so nice as literary agents), and then I gave each of them a random photograph and they worked in groups to write the first page of that person’s story.

All but the last group had a chance to share (once again, the auditorium filled with people, all of whom were staring at me as though they wanted me to make an announcement at the very least, so I sort of panicked and collected my materials about fifteen minutes early.) This is about when I spilled coffee all over the stage and my phone, but it is also when several of the students came up to me and read their stories to me. One pair of seventh grade girls held up a photo of a man standing with a solemn look on his face and said, “He has…he’s very secretive, and it’s a heavy secret. There’s just something so serious and hidden about him.” It was like this photo, which I’ve used many times in my writing-teaching years, just came alive. They knew his story, or they were determined to discover it, and I almost didn’t want to take the photo away from them.

It was awesome to see the way the students joyfully jumped into character creation. Their eyes lit up when they saw their photograph, and some of them immediately started listing the person’s traits. Some proclaimed his name in an instant, while others happily perused my baby name book in search of the perfect handle. Some groups collaborated beautifully while others happily wrote their own stories from the same picture. They picked from my deck of conflict cards and became inspired by little plot hints such as, “Something important has been lost,” or “falsely arrested!”

So that was the story of my first ever author workshop, which, of course, was not all that different than my day-to-day teaching life (and really, how awesome is that?!) except that generally I don’t teach from a giant stage in a super-fancy auditorium that keeps randomly filling up with people who are looking at me like I should be saying something that requires practice and timing and a few good jokes. Maybe not singing, though.

SPEAKING OF STUDENTS…my own lovely student, Amanda, is the winner of the first prize in my Cassandra Survey series. She’s going to get a signed copy of Kiss the Morning Star, and I hope to get a new Cassandra Series post up soon. I’m kind of excited to see where chapter six will take me. :)

your favorite after-school activity…

Chapter Five: Your favorite after school activity...

Chapter Five: Your favorite after school activity…

Question five in the Cassandra Survey is one of the easiest yet, though I guess my answer would change depending on where in my life I answer it from. As a teenager, my favorite after-school activity would have been working on one of my school plays. I loved being a drama geek, even if I was always kind of on the edge of the scene. I played small parts as an actor, but I also designed the sets, which made the experience so much richer — it was one of the first times I got to be an artist with an audience.

Now, as a teacher, my hands-down favorite after-school activity is my creative writing club, which started out two years ago as a NaNoWriMo Club. A group of intensely talented and funny creative writers, all hunched over laptops and sucking on Jolly Ranchers for an hour or so every Monday after school…so awesome! It’s enough to make me sad when we have a Monday snow day, like today!

Writing is my favorite after-school activity even without the club, and my only difficulty is that sometimes being in school all day (my days are frequently 11-12 hours long, even before I drag my giant tote bag full of papers home) exhausts my creative brain to its very edge, and it isn’t until I’ve had dinner, storytime with my boys, and another cup of coffee that I really get warmed up. And then, of course, it’s time to sleep!

How about you? Whether or not you’re in school right now, what’s your favorite after-school activity?

(I’ll check in tomorrow to give away the prize…)

your best friend would say you are…

Chapter Four: Your best friend would say you are...

Chapter Four: Your best friend would say you are…

I don’t think I’ve ever written a character who has a perfect, supportive, functional best friend. And that’s a little weird, because I’ve had some great bffs, including one who was basically glued to my side from first grade to college. At one point, I took someone’s advice (my mom’s, probably) and married my best friend after something like seven years of co-adventuring, and although twelve years later D still holds that place in my life, I’m not quite sure how to complete the fourth question in the Cassandra Survey.

I feel like there might be a slightly pregnant pause as he gathered his thoughts… “Elissa is…” and then probably he’d say something rather diplomatic like, “…someone who has a lot going on inside her head.” This is probably code for someone who starts doing a household task and then abandons it midway through to daydream about people who don’t exist except in my imagination.

I wanted to know if I was right about what he would say, so I texted him (he’s in the basement) with the question, “What would you say about me?”

He said I was his favorite. Then he said I’m “very tolerant except when it comes to: broken glass, bad directions, grossness.” I think that pretty much sums me up! :)

And you? Your best friend would say you are…

(play along, comment, pass it on…I’m begging you…there’s a contest and stuff, but really, I just want to know how you would answer!)

If you could change one thing…

Chapter Three: If you could change one thing...

Chapter Three: If you could change one thing…

Okay, so that last question was really hard, at least for me, but the third question in Cassandra’s Survey is so much easier I could answer it all day in a million different ways. Except, of course, that would be against the very spirit of the question, which specifies that it is ONE THING I can change.

And that’s still easy. If I could change one thing, I’d take away the food allergies from my children. I’d take them away and keep them for myself, I’d wish them into a miraculous disappearance, or I’d wish that the very idea of a life-threatening food allergy no longer existed. I don’t care. This would be the one thing I would change, the one thing that frightens the daylights out of me on a pretty much daily basis and makes every single function of my kids’ lives just a little bit more complicated and worrisome for everyone.

(I know. It’s still sort of cheating since I have two children, but come on. I couldn’t wish them away from one without making sure they are both in the clear, and really, we don’t even know that Monkey has any, so it would be a simple thing.)

If for some reason I was not allowed to change something about someone else, I’d like to change myself to have a strong and interesting singing voice. I do love to sing.

And if I wasn’t allowed to actually change something like either of these things…if it was not a magical genie sort of change but a regular, go-back-in-time-and-fix-your-mistakes kind of change, I’d probably try to be a better friend to many people who have been quite dear to me but from whom I’ve grown apart due to my own laziness and insecurities.

Okay. So if you could change one thing, what would it be? Share! :)

a bit of a stumper…(plus my mom reads this!)

Chapter Two: One thing nobody knows about you...

Chapter Two: One thing nobody knows about you…

This is the second post in my Cassandra’s Survey series — posts that revolve around the chapter titles of my upcoming book, Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always. To begin at the beginning, go to question one and tell me three words that best describe you. All comments on these first five posts enter you to win a copy of my first book, Kiss the Morning Star (or, if you’ve already got that, I’ve got a few more prizes to throw your way!)

Chapter two begins with the words, One thing nobody knows about you…

This is a stumper, already. What could there possibly be that nobody knows about me — not my husband, not my mother? Then, at the same time, something I am willing to share with all of you??? I’m not an exceptionally secretive person, but seriously.

I did once convince a few people that I only have eight toes, because my pinky toes are so short they never reach the outside world in my sandals, but D knows that story. He knows all my stories, and he doesn’t even interrupt me when I tell them twice. In fact, he knows me so well, I even asked him, but then…if he knows something, it doesn’t count. His suggestion, by the way, after he suggested something I am definitely not sharing on the internet, was that he once had to sell a gun he bought (he’s a competitive target shooting person, not a nutjob, jsyk) because I shot it so much better than he did.

I could tell you about how I will only eat cereal without milk because milk that has taken on the flavor of sweetened cereal makes me vomity, or that I hate garden green beans because they feel like they’re wearing sweaters, or that I used to eat cooked carrots with ketchup to kill the taste, and now sometimes I’ll be eating cooked carrots and miss the ketchup taste. But people know those things, and besides, everyone has weird food quirks.

I could tell you about how, when I was a little kid lying in my bed trying to fall asleep at night, I used to pretend that I was forced to sleep inside a coffin made out of ice, but if I tell you that story, you’ll probably think I’m crazy. (And that was probably one of the least bizarre bits in my kid brain.)

I could tell you how I used to be a telemarketer and I quit four days shy of my six month bonus because it made me sick to my stomach to call all those people and interrupt their lives. They were so mean, and I still hate calling people on the phone, even my friends. (But other people know this about me, so.)

I could tell you how I got my teaching job through a phone interview, and I was so nervous on the phone that I spent the entire time cleaning my fridge, while wearing a pair of jeans with a big hole in the butt. (But I’ve told that story to my 8th grade class.)

I could tell about how I misspelled words on purpose in the seventh grade spelling bees because I was tired of people calling me a “booker.” How I’ve actually frequently made mistakes on purpose because I feel bad about other people feeling threatened by me being good at something. (But that’s sort of depressing.)

Oh! I could tell you about how, even though I’m a young adult author, there are significant events in my adolescence that I simply cannot remember…like my first real kiss. No memory. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that before. How about you? The odds are, your mom and your partner and your students aren’t reading this, so spill it.

What’s the one thing that nobody knows about you?