Realistic Characters: Created by Design or Inspiration?

Whether in plot- or character-driven fiction--and I am becoming less and less convinced there is a definitive distinction between the two--character design is central to maintaining an audience's interest in our storytelling.  How characters act and react to the obstacles strewn in their path demonstrates who they are (or who they are becoming).  A character who acts in a manner inconsistent with his or her personality quickly becomes a slave to whatever urges the author has.  I've read enough fanfic to know that playing God with your characters, allowing them to behave inconsistently, almost inevitably leads to boring storytelling.

So how do we create consistent characters?

We don't.

They have to come to us.

Gemina Soul, used with permission by kattattak.

As a reader, I don't have to like who a character is or what a character does.  I just have to be able to understand why they do what they do.  That understanding allows me to give the author the benefit of the doubt, to trust that they truly understand their stories, and to simply get lost in the storytelling.  If characters make no sense to me, if I can't understand their flaws, then I cannot give myself up to the power of their stories.

Falling in love with a character in someone else's work is not so different from becoming enamored with our own.  I've written recently about meeting one of my protagonists.  Purple prose aside, inspiration struck me in a moment when I most needed it to appear.  Alisandra was already there, fully formed from the ether, or from my own mind, or from a crack in time and space between our two worlds.  However she came to me, I cannot claim to have created her.

But for her story, I escape neither responsibility nor blame.  In the end I will lay claim to having told her story as beautifully and accurately as I was able.  But the work has not been in the inspiration: it has been in the craft.

Darcy Pattison wrote an excellent little blog post on keeping characters consistent. Of her methods, one of my favorite exercises for discovering characters involves a full immersion of myself into their world.  What does life look like on a daily basis?  How have the edges of that life, sharp or silken, carved the characters' personalities?  What things have these story people seen or done that have contributed to the people they are becoming?

Character interviews are another excellent tool for getting to know your characters.  I particularly love the long outline in chapter seven of K.M. Weiland's Outlining Your Novel: Map Your Way to Success.  It gives a novelist a very in-depth idea of the kinds of things you should know about your character when writing them into a piece of fiction, and particularly into one the length of a novel.

I've also found altering my usual POV to be another excellent method of getting inside the minds of my characters--particularly if they are antagonists or minor players in the main story.  I just slip into a first-person mindset and let their words run wild.  I am always surprised at what they tell me about their own experiences.  Even those characters I hate most have a right to have their stories heard; I don't have to ever repeat them to find them valuable.

These methods are indispensable to us as writers, because they help bring our characters to life in our own minds.  I am wholeheartedly convinced that the real work is not in "coming up" with a character.  It's in understanding the characters we've already met. We will never understand our characters' motivations, their actions and reactions, if we do not understand them as people first.  What does that scar over her left eye mean?  Why does he always flinch when he hears the sound of running water?  Why does she smirk when she gets angry?

In the end, designing a character for me is never about designing her to behave in subservience to my desired plot.  It is always about getting to know her, meeting her at her level, and discovering who she is, was, and may yet be.  If she trusts me to listen, to understand her story even if I don't agree with it, then she will trust me to tell it to others the best way I know how.  My job is not to create.  It's to take what's already there, a secret known to me alone, and to give it manifestation in the here and now, so that others can meet the characters that have entrusted me with their stories.  

Crafting stories is both a buoying joy and a heavy responsibility.  We have a sacred obligation to our characters to tell their stories the best way we can, and until we can embrace them, understand them as old friends, their stories will be little more than collections of pretty phrases without meaning.

A Change in Scenery - Setting and Stagnant Water

I met Alisandra on an unseasonably warm Sunday in February.  My partner Katherine and I, glad for the warming weather after a relatively mild winter, decided to spend an afternoon out on the banks of a local lake with a picnic basket and a bottle of cheap wine. 

Before long, we had devoured our lunches and were halfway through the zinfandel.  We lay together on a ratty pink quilt and allowed our thoughts to wander.  Katherine carefully observed the skyline on the opposite bank.  As they often did, her eyes wandered over each flickering branch in awe of the way sun and shadow played amongst the sparse leaves rustling in the late winter breeze.  I, on the other hand, was lost in the feel of crisp air brushing against my skin, and in a moment of impulse I stood and crossed barefoot to the water's edge.  I dipped the toes of one foot into the frigid water.  Although it was cold enough to bring pricks of pain to my skin, I couldn't move, frozen by a feeling in the center of my chest that I couldn't describe.

That's when she appeared.  Within my mind's eye Alisandra stood, almost fully formed, on the banks of a frigid lake.  I could not move out of sheer fascination.  I wanted to know everything about this woman: who she was, how she'd come to be here, and perhaps most importantly, what she was doing.

I felt in my chest her longing, her desperation, her yearning.  I asked her what she was waiting for.  "I'm choosing my mistress," she whispered back. She stared into the distance as she waited faithfully for her hopes to manifest.

It took weeks for Alisandra to trust me enough to explain what she meant.  Even then, she wouldn't trust me with her story all at once.  First she gave me but a vignette, an image of the choice upon that bank.  Then she gave me her novella, the shortened version of how she came to make the choice.  The story that eventually grew from that initial meeting became Choosing Her Chains, my novel currently in the middle of major re-writes.  And none of it would have come about had I not been foolish enough to dip my toes in frigid water on a cool day in February.

Taken in October, not February.  Sue me.

Alisandra has been particularly silent lately.  I normally count on her to drive me one way or another, to let me know when my story is falling short or when I'm getting the details wrong.  The past few weeks, she seems to have left me to my own devices.  She's confident with my plot choices, with my characterization, and the inevitable climax the novel will take.  But something just hasn't been right.  The atmosphere has been all wrong.  I can't convey exactly the emotions I know she and her fellow characters have been feeling.

The lake's waters have fallen stagnant.  Something has got to change.





My partner and I often take mini-vacations or day retreats with her family.  We always have a great time together, and it allows us all to bond as well as relish in the fact that we're all adults (sort of) and don't have to drag whiny children around on our adventures.

As the summer fades into fall, one of our preferred retreats is Turner Falls, a beautiful park in Davis, Oklahoma.  There's tons of hiking, picnic areas, etc., but we most love swimming in the various "natural swimming areas" surrounding the falls.  The water is always cold and refreshing, even in the hottest days of summer, and the sheer volume of visitors more or less ensures safety from any unwanted serpentine residents.  It's absolutely brilliant.

Water slide, anyone?

This past Saturday, we found ourselves at a particular place in the park where a number of rocks sit underneath a series of small falls.  If you have the fortitude (and balance) to climb over the algae-covered rocky bottom, you can make your way onto one of these rocks and enjoy the falls as they splash over your head and back.  After much trial and error (and a few extra bruises), I sat on a particularly wide rock and watched as the others splashed around and avoided the rocky bottom. 

A familiar hypnotic compulsion overtook me.  I couldn't stop running my fingers over the rough stone edges of the fall.  As the chilly water washed over me, I sat motionless, entranced.  I was frozen, just as I'd been on the banks of that lake months before.  I had a sudden realization.  Of course the atmosphere in my novel had been wrong!  I had been basing the whole time of year on my initial meeting with Alisandra in February.  But no!  The timing was all wrong!

"Oppression is not cold and empty," Alisandra whispered to me.  "It's the beating of the summer sun on a hot day, blistering and stagnant.  The rush of water, no matter how frigid, whispers the song of freedom."  She shook her head and chuckled (rather uncharitably) at me.  I'd lost my footing in her story, not because the plot was "wrong" or the characters poorly portrayed, but because I was trying to fit them into my preconceived notions of setting.

I've spent time the past day and a half re-reading old notes and drafts and re-sketching scenes as necessary to incorporate this new revelation. It's as if all those plot elements that were poorly tied together now flow along like rapids on a hot summer day.  I can't guarantee the end result will be any better than it might have been, but at least now I'm no longer sitting stagnant, wondering what in the world I should do next.

Sometimes all it takes is a change of scenery.

Creating the "Write" Atmosphere

I had an itch to work on some dark prose this week, so I did what I normally do with short pieces.  I sent off the second draft (because who wants to read the first one?) to people I trust (both published and unpublished authors and poets) for their preliminary thoughts.

My favorite reviewer (one of my frequently published friends) spent most of his comments on the opening few lines.  He wanted to remind me of the importance of establishing ambiance immediately.

In writing poetic prose, plot isn't necessarily the most important part of the work.  In fact, it might not even be a fully formed element.  Instead, language reigns supreme.  Emotion and setting become the primary characters.  Atmosphere means everything.

Time is rarely an excuse.

I spent some time last night on a webinar on "How to Find Time to Write" (hosted by Kevin T. Johns).  I thought I'd find it useful, since I do have a full-time job and sometimes wonder how I'll ever find time to get writing done.

Within the first twenty minutes, I realized that time has never been my problem.  I've got it.  Obviously.  Right now I'm using the half an hour between the time I get out of the shower and the time I have to wake up my partner to work on blog posts.  I pretty regularly take short writing breaks at work (rather than actually taking lunch).  In the evenings, I tip-tap away at the keyboard while watching television.

For me, the time is all right there.  It exists.  I can't use lack of time as an excuse. 

During the webinar, Kevin said he felt sorry for people who feel they have to write in particular settings, that they were missing opportunities for productivity by insisting on writing only when in the right mood, or at the right place, or at the right time.   I'm sad to say that I may or may not be one of those people.

I do get a lot of writing done in the midst of chaos.  But that productivity usually takes the form of blog posts, short poems, etc.  I have a lot of trouble fitting fiction into my writing day.  And I think I've identified the root of the problem.

In real life, as in prose, atmosphere means everything.

I am incredibly easily distracted.  I don't know whether it's undiagnosed Adult ADD or just my penchant for getting lost in my head at random moments, but keeping my mind focused on a particular task can be incredibly difficult for me.  Even now, I can't stop from periodically flipping over to twitter or Facebook, or from wondering whether I really ought to go ahead and start making coffee.  Then my mind flits to the terrible coffee we have in our office and I think that yes, I really ought to make myself a giant tankard of coffee each morning before going to work.  You know, I bet I could set that up the night before as well as make my lunch and I'd save time for writing in the mornings--

--and I've come full circle, back to my working on this blog post and wondering whether it makes any sense because of my nonsensical ramblings.   Perhaps, as I've just demonstrated, I'm perfectly capable of working on these sorts of projects in between thoughts as they flicker.  It just works.

Fiction is another beast entirely.  For me, good storytelling requires me to step out of my reality.  I have to look into my characters' world: to see what they see; to hear, touch, and feel what they feel; to be in that moment completely, or else I can't find just the right words.  And therein lies the problem.  How does one really focus on immersing herself in an atmosphere if she can't really get out of the distractions in real life?

Right now, my lack of setting is hurting my fiction productivity way more than my lack of time.  I live in a tiny studio apartment (no doors except for in the bathroom) with my partner and our feline compatriots.  Because of our respective schedules, I am never home alone, which means truly immersive writing for me can ONLY take place in the morning before she's awake.

I've also tried writing in my office at work.  It helps, but only if it's in the early mornings or late evenings when the office is empty.  I occasionally get some good work done in the local public library or in coffee shops.  But I don't yet have a space of my own that I can dedicate to undistracted writing.

 

So how can we set the atmosphere, wherever we are?

I don't claim to have all the answers.  Obviously, I still struggle with distraction on a daily basis.  However, I do have some suggestions that I've found at least partially helpful.


1.  Headphones -- I have a pair of awesome (but inexpensive) headphones.  They don't block out all sound, but they do at least give me a semblance of privacy.  I could never get anything done in a coffee shop without them.  In this particular instance, I don't suggest earbuds, but instead the larger, more traditional style of headphones.  This suggestion is based on my personal experience--I have yet to get a set of earbuds that give me as much privacy as the larger style can.  Perhaps they frighten would-be distractors away.  :)

Don't need Dr. Dre to jam.

2.  Find some music or background noise -- I know, I know.  Why create background noise when you're trying to get away from distractions?  The object here is to find some sort of sound that not only sets you in a good mood for writing but also helps cancel out any extraneous noise (that you have no control over) going on around you.  Some writers swear by setting their own playlists and writing while listening to those.  Some prefer Pandora or other streaming services that allow you to pick a "genre" you find inspiring.  I'll listen to Pandora occasionally, but I actually much prefer the background noise generator at Noisli.com.  If I can't be out by the water at least let me pretend I am.  :)

Will someone please buy me a waterproof notebook?

3.  Sit facing a wall -- Stephen King advocates working facing a corner.  If you've got visual access to lots of interesting things, they're very likely to draw your thoughts away from your work.  Sure, an item or two might help inspire you--your character's eyes are just that shade of aquamarine--but having an abundance of visual distractions is just asking for trouble.

4.  Have all supplies at hand -- Before you sit down, make sure you've got anything you might need to work.  Laptop, books, kindle (because yes, I have references in e-book), pens, pencils, whatever items you might need to work on your chosen project for the day.  There's nothing worse than having to get up and down all morning or afternoon because you have to go searching for something you need but didn't have on you.

5.  Close all extraneous computer windows -- If you do most of your work on a computer (like I do), then close out any windows or tabs you don't need before you start.  Seriously.  Leaving them open will KILL your atmosphere.  Even now I see a second tab opened to Twitter, and as I watch that little (55) move up to (74), it takes all of my will power NOT to check it.  Don't do it.  You're here to write, not to stalk people on social media.




Blogging has demonstrated to me that I have the power to write in a variety of atmospheres, and even to switch between them relatively quickly.  But sometimes, the demands of your story insist upon a certain atmosphere.  Do what you have to do to make it.  Your work deserves it.

Fake It, Baby! The Power of a F.I.B.

This morning, one of my dear friends shared with our writing community a (true) story about her daughter.  The little girl woke in tears from the middle of a dream.  In this disturbing nightmare, a horde of mischievous faeries threatened to take away her mother, the writer of their destiny, if she didn't complete a (perfectly positive) story about them.  The little girl would not be consoled.  Even though one of the faeries got gobbled up by their Great Dane.  She absolutely insisted her mother write the story, lest she be carted away by a horde of faeries. 

What strikes me about this amusing little anecdote is not so much its humor (though there is plenty to be found), but its earnestness.  This little girl sees her mother as a writer, a writer with the power to create her own salvation, or to doom herself with her own negligence.  What a wonderful gift, to be seen as such a powerful woman by someone who loves you!

Writing is at the heart of my friend's identity.  It is what she loves, who she is, and that simple "being" reflects in her daughter's attitudes and opinions.

But what about the rest of us? I am but one of a flood of unpublished amateurs out in murky waters wondering whether I will ever be comfortable enough to call myself a writer. I work an ordinary day job, where I push papers and manage administrative "emergencies" on a day-to-day basis.  Those tasks pay my bills, but they do not define who I am.  When meeting new people, I introduce myself by name and job title. Their primary understanding of my identity comes from my place of employment.  And usually, I allow the misconception.

When I was teaching high school band, we had a saying we would tell our students when performance anxiety took over:  "F.I.B. - Fake It, Baby!"  We didn't need their confidence.  We just needed them to act like they had it.  Funny how that works.  As many of them learned to fib, to fake their way through the paces, they actually got better.  What had been holding them back was neither talent nor lack of discipline, but fear.  They just needed to push through, to put on an air of confidence until some magical day when they actually had it.

For a long time I considered writing a hobby.  It was this task I did in my spare time that brought me pleasure, but it was not something to be proud of, to tell my family about, to post about in blogs or chat rooms.  It was just something that I did under the cover of darkness, when I was too emotionally wrought to express myself in any other way.

But what happens when hobby becomes vocation?  When you begin waking each morning planning your writing day, or going to bed each night hoping your dreams will bring you new ideas for the next day?  What happens then?  How do you burst from the closet with fountain pen in hand and say "Guess what?  I'm a writer!"?

Maybe fibbing is the key to making that transition, to going from a hobbyist to someone proud of a chosen vocation (whether or not it ever pays us a dime).

Bryan Hutchinson argues that, as writers, fear is not our enemy:

 "On the contrary, courage, confidence and even so called fearlessness are the results of facing, embracing and finally, dancing with your fears."
~Bryan Hutchinson, PositiveWriter.com

His point is that we need not be fearless.  We only must keep writing anyway.  I believe we have to take it a step further.  We have to share that writing with others, even through the fear.  When we meet someone at a party, we can't limit ourselves to saying "I am a sales associate" or "I am a homemaker" or "I'm a contractor."  For many of us our day jobs are only a way to pay the bills.  Let's act like it, ignore the fear, and tell it like it really is--even if we don't believe it yet.

I'm Amalie Cantor, and I'm a writer.  Who are you?

Keeping the Darkness In

This past week, a blog post has been making the rounds on Twitter (again) on toxic writing.  Colleen McCarty poses an interesting question: "But what about the flip side? What happens when what you’re imagining and creating on the page starts to become your reality?"

I'm not known for writing sympathetic characters.  My protagonists are oftentimes selfish cowards, some of whom find redemption, but some of whom exist only to shed light on the humanity of those around them.  I gain catharsis from writing these sorts of characters.  There's something alluring about sinking into their heads, about getting into the darkness that both plagues humanity and makes it beautiful.

For most writers, characters, and particularly protagonists, are mere extrapolations of the way we see ourselves.  Some might argue that I, therefore, have a somewhat dismal viewpoint of myself.  That much is at least somewhat true.  But it's therapeutic to take these character flaws, the ones that represent the worst of myself, and bring them into the open.  It allows me to examine them objectively, to set them at a distance, but also to learn how to integrate them into the whole of my being.  My flaws, and the scars they have created, are as much a part of me as are my virtues.

Not that McCarty doesn't have a very valid point.  The truth is that, when I'm writing a particularly dark scene, when I'm mining myself for that almost sadistic part of me that becomes excited by cruelty, by selfishness, by violence, I can become unbearable for days afterward.   I get snappy.  I become withdrawn.  I am more interested in losing myself to the darkness than I am in exploring the light.  My poor fiancee often gets the brunt of it.  Sometimes it's so bad that I have to pull myself completely out of the project for a few days, lest I become irretrievably lost.

But I think my partner also gets it.  By writing characters that are so like me, I learn how why I should not make the same choices they do.  I learn what it means to be selfless, to give, to be bright and cheery and caring.  My darkness is not expunged, never that.  But I learn to use it in balance, to allow both parts of myself time to shine.  In my day-to-day life, my bubbly personality and desire to help others shine through almost everything I do--at least that's what my coworkers tell me.

But at night, with the lights low and the laptop screen burning, the darkness bubbles up from inside the depths of my heart, bleeding onto the page in thorny characters and misshapen opportunities.  I long to cultivate that darkness, to bring from within it something haunting and dirty and lovely.  To allow it to fade would be to lose the beauty of who I am as a person.

So, yes, Ms. McCarty.  I am one of those authors that writes to keep the darkness in.

The Power of Words, The Power of Doubt

I wrote today's post in response to the contest over at Positive Writer - Overcoming Writer's Doubt.  In the week or so since I've found it, Bryan Hutchinson's work has become a much needed source of inspiration for me.  Thanks for running such a great contest and such an inspirational site!  :)

* * * * * * *

Neither faith nor doubt are instinctual.  Each is cultivated from the gradual outpouring of words.  A single word, sentence, or phrase may float past us with little notice.  But over time, each shouted taunt or whispered praise blasts over us like grains of sand.  From both within and without we are eroded, sculpted; the people we might have been are molded into the people we become.

I learned to read fairly young.  By three, I was mispronouncing words in my mother's nursing textbooks. I mimicked the curves of letters as words blossomed on the margins of my Barbie coloring books.  I read voraciously, usually without much concern for pictures on the page.  They could not match the images that drew themselves in my mind's eye. 

By third or fourth grade, I had learned that to be smart was to be different.  That being different made you a target for ridicule and shame.  My bullies were but scared kids themselves, but their words had power, the power to destroy, to ruin.  I chose to stick to myself, to keep company only with others who hid among the shadows. Words sculpted me into an elementary school hermit.

Of course, words also allowed me to explore myself and the world around me in relative safety.  I devoured the words of my favorite authors and wanted nothing more than to emulate them.  I began my first novel in 7th grade.  I wanted to create something as dark and beautiful as my favorite Christopher Pike stories.  I showed it to my mother.  She sent those first chapters to a friend at a local university.  I never read her response.  I couldn't handle the assured heartbreak.  I knew quite well I "couldn't do it."  Why invite criticism?

Still, I loved to write, to twist those 26 characters into strange and unusual combinations.  I wrote some poetry.  Toyed with fiction.  Posted on deadjournal, xanga, whatever "blogging" site was popular at the time.  I never really expected anyone to read anything.  Looking back, I'm pretty sure I didn't want them to.

Years passed.  I stopped writing creatively and started writing academically.  The university embraced me.  I could put the right words in the right places, could easily meet and often exceed my instructors' standards.  I knew how to give them exactly what they wanted.  I thought, "I could do this for a living."  Praise for my work became a drug for me.  I had no high so euphoric as receiving a paper back from a professor full of praise, light correction, and even thoughtful consideration.  For the first time, I believed I'd found a place where I belonged.

Then grad school happened. I'd spent a few years out of my element, teaching full-time, but I'd needed more than anything to be back home in academia.  If only my professors had felt the same way.  They challenged me in ways I couldn't imagine.  Was I acceptable?  Yes.  But I felt as if I was just barely reaching the bar.

Then came my master's thesis.  My adviser became more irritated with me which each draft.  "Amalie," she once said, "you have a talent for putting together pretty words that don't mean anything."  On that day, my dream of becoming a professor shattered all over her office's dirty grey linoleum.

I hated how her words broke me, how they continued to break me, until the day I finally finished.  I walked away from grad school with my GPA, if not my ambition, intact.  All confidence I'd gained in five years as an undergraduate vanished in six months as I tried to finish one goddamned paper that no one would ever read.

I wrote nothing--fiction, essays, poetry, prose--for almost a year, one of the harshest of my life.  I was a woman in crisis, employed, but at just above minimum wage.  I had three degrees but used none of them.  Worst of all, I didn't believe I deserved anything more.

Slowly, I climbed out of my depression.  I realized, in retrospect, what my adviser had been trying to accomplish. She'd wanted to craft me into the kind of thinker, the kind of writer, that she knew I could be.  But her words held power, and rather than build me up, they'd eroded all my confidence away.  It would be up to me to get it back.

I turned once again to prose.  I hoped to express the doubts that followed me like a cluster of vipers snapping at my heels. In writing, I expelled the venom of a life I didn't know I hadn't wanted.  I wrangled myself a new job and a brilliant fiancee.  I thought maybe, just maybe, I could take my writing seriously again.

The day the doubt lifted, I'd been writing feverishly for hours.  My partner and I were at one of our favorite coffee shops, sipping meltaway lattes, when I handed her my laptop.  "I've been toying with this short story all day.  Read it and give me your opinion?"  She put her own sketchpad away and nodded.  I headed toward the ladies' room.  I couldn't watch her face as she read.

When I came back, she had tears in her eyes.  I looked at her in concern, but she lifted her face to me and said, "Baby, it's beautiful."  In those three words, the rip in my soul--the one that had torn me apart since that day in my adviser's office--began to heal.  I'd given a professor's words the power to destroy me.  I'd never thought to let my partner heal me with hers.

Words are powerful.  There are still days when I fear the power intrinsic in my voice, in my hands, on the tips of my fingers.  Each and every word I say, whether shining and brilliant or dull, dank, and dark, has the power to erode away who another person might be.  But it also has the power to sculpt them into the kind of person they want to become.

I only hope it's the latter.

Riding the Changes

This week has been hell on my normal writing schedule. 

My partner (a beginning artist) and I had a plan all mapped out to increase our productivity levels, which has been lower this summer than we'd like.  We were going to spend all day Saturday getting our tiny studio apartment reorganized.  Space is at a premium in our home, and we thought doing a bit of rearranging would give us both some much needed work space. 

Saturday was VERY successful.  We got a LOT done and our living room opened up quite a bit to allow for Katherine's painting.  We were exhausted and hot, so about 7 pm we decided to put the rest off until the next day.

Procrastination is a dream killer.  Seriously.

By 8 am Sunday morning, the temperature in the apartment had climbed to about 85 °F.  The air conditioner was out. Again.  So for the next several days, I spent my days commuting between the apartment (to see what work had been finished) and my sister-in-law's house in the city.  She and her roommate were lovely and hosted us (and our two very unhappy felines) in their guest room while the air was out of commission.

I tried to write some this past week.  I really did.  I even pulled my laptop out.  Once.  But I was out of my element.  I was still working my normal schedule, but I lost 30 minutes of my precious schedule (in each direction) to the morning commute.  Of course, the loss of that extra time coincides with my office's final week of the summer semester, a week which is historically our busiest.  Each night this week I've arrived at the house tired and cranky and only half-fluent in some previously undiscovered dialect of English.  My carefully crafted dreams of spending this week in creative ecstasy with our newly reorganized and tidy apartment were obliterated right there on the unexpectedly hot linoleum floor.

I am, by nature, a scheduler.  I live and die by the clock, and while at work, by my Outlook calendar.  I would never know when I am supposed to be where without it.  So for me, the only way to ensure I'll do ANY significant writing is to create a time-slot for it.

I did try.  Each night on the way back to the house, I planned.  "This house usually eats dinner at about 8.  I'll get home at about 5, say hello to everyone, and then lock myself in the bedroom to write from about 6 to 7."  What actually happened:

Me:  I need to write a bit before dinner tonight.
Katherine:  Of course, sweetie.  Do what you need to do.
Me:  *starts to head to bedroom*
Katherine:  By the way, Jenn and I randomly decided we should clean the pool for the very first time all summer.  Wanna go swim for a bit while it's still warm?
Me:  *brief pause*  Sure. I should have a bit of time for that.

Four hours later, we're still in the pool, the sun has long set, and no, we never did have dinner.  My carefully planned schedule was interrupted, which meant the whole rest of the day was obviously blown.  Repeat this scenario three more times and you've got a relatively clear picture of my week.

My partner has exactly the opposite predilection.  She can't schedule anything to save her life.  "It'll happen when I get to it" seems to be her life mantra.  I'm constantly harassing her to get herself on some semblance of a schedule so she can accomplish what she wants to accomplish.  Never works.  She finds it stifling.

Yet in this week, when she was at the mercy of both my work schedule (and thus the absence of the car) and the schedule of her sister AND the unpredictability of the maintenance crew, she managed to actually get a lot of things done: cleaning the pool, working on some painting, etc.  It's as if a switch inside her flipped and said "Wow, I have this opportunity to do these things that I didn't think I'd have.  Let me go do it."  Now, if she knows that she will have between 3 and 5 today to herself to paint, she's not interested.  Go figure.

I envy that spirit of adventure that follows Katherine around like a little spastic cloud of paint balls wildly destroying (and beautifying) all my hard-laid plans.  My point of view is usually limited to "How can I make this thing happen/not happen?"  Hers is more "I wonder what's going to happen now?"  The discrepancy makes me crazy, but for some strange reason I'm still marrying her.  I must be a bit  of a masochist.

There are many excellent blog posts out there about how to schedule a writing career or hobby around another full-time job or other commitments, and almost all of them emphasize the need for a writing routine.  ("Writing Routines that Work" is one of my favorites.)  I can't say I disagree with any of them.  But sometimes things happen, and my routine is pretty much thrown out the window.  How then do I learn to ride the changes?  How can I become more flexible to changing currents and less like an iceberg?

Looking back on the week, I can identify a dozen small choices that, although they might not have resulted in my designated 1500+ words a day, would have gotten me closer to my goals.  I could have sat on the side of the pool and read the short stories I'm working on aloud to my partner.  I would have caught my own grammar mistakes that way AND gotten her feedback.  I might have turned on the voice recorder on my cell phone as we lounged in the waters and told her about some of my new story ideas.  I would have gotten her ideas as well as played with turns of phrase that might shine up into something sparkly.  When her sister wanted to drink wine and play cards with us that one night, I could have had a notebook and pen sitting aside so that when someone said something particularly outrageous or funny, I could jot it down for possible use later.

I often over-emphasize the importance of a schedule. I miss opportunities to hang out with friends, to have lunch at that new Thai place, to go see an excellent movie, because it interferes with my preconceived ideas of what I'm supposed to be doing at that time.  Then, when those oh-so-precious plans fall apart anyway, I'm totally useless.  I don't know how to cope.

The truth is, by focusing on what I didn't have time to do (which is almost always untrue anyway), I miss out on experiencing the things in life that would make me a better writer.  Moreover, I miss out on the things worth writing about. 

My narcissism has mumbled to myself a million times why my partner isn't more like me.  Why she can't abide by schedules, why doing what she knows she can seems to be such a chore.  Then, something like this past weekend happens, and I remember that sometimes, only sometimes, I need to learn to be more like her.

Here's to air conditioning restored, to routines reestablished, and to riding the changes.  May we all make the most of what we've got.

Even if it wasn't on the schedule.