Getting Sucked In

Being the sparse television viewer that I am and avid channel hopper, I tend to catch a lot of movies in snippets. So the other night, in a post-revision haze, I was flipping around cable and caught “The Brave One” starring Jodie Foster and Terrence Howard about 20 minutes into the film.

I’d read the cable channel’s information summary about the plot before settling on the station and apparently I joined the action after the inciting incident. (Writers, you know, the point at which the story catapults forward.) And though I missed seeing the actual scene that changed the course of Jodie’s character’s life, I didn’t feel like I missed anything at all.

You know how some flicks are: You come in five or ten minutes late, get to the end and say, “Hmmm, I must have missed something” because the ending leaves you less than satisfied. Or confused. Or irritated that you wasted your time watching at all.

Well, I have to say that Jodie’s acting was so on-spot, her character so engaging, that I could sense the depth of what must have happened to her in the minutes I missed just by watching her actions as the movie unfolded. I don’t even feel like I need to try to catch the first 20 minutes of the movie another time.

So, of course, as an author, what does one have to do to make a character that complete? A heroine (or hero) who is so compelling that you feel their emotion, understand their behavior, empathize with their flaws, anticipate their actions? That you want to run your fingers across the type as if feeling their skin beneath your fingers? How does a make-believe person become that real?

Of course, there are many how-to's on developing characters. I use two books in particular: Writers Guide to Character Traits by Linda N. Edelstein, Ph.D., and The Complete Writer's Guide to Heroes & Heroines: Sixteen Master Archetypes by Tami D. Cowden, Caro LaFever and Sue Viders. I also spend a lot of time people watching; looking for the quirks that make for great plot twists and for the humanity that makes us real.

And then there's Jodie, sucking you into the screen.

Duly inspired, I’ve set a new standard for myself: I want my words to rise from their sentences, take shape atop the book, and distract the reader with their all-too-real antics. In deference to the art of my craft, I will write fictional people as if Jodie Foster or Don Cheadle had already breathed life into each line.

In a world 40 years ago my son probably wouldn’t be here

At one point in time, the average life span for people with Sickle Cell Anemia was twelve years of age. Today, my younger son has hit that milestone – and not without a whole lot of reflection and praise from me.

Thank you, Lord!

Mine is a quiet spirituality that has carried me through the difficult reality of raising a child with an uncertain prognosis. When I began doling out medicine droppers filled with prophylactic antibiotics when he was two months old, I did so out of duty (the doctor insisted), obligation (this is my child to care for) and, okay, trepidation (what if I don’t?).

A couple of years ago, I wrote a lengthy and cathartic essay about our journey with Sickle Cell Anemia; the hospitalizations with their umpteen pokes, the threats of being fired for being off with him too much, the anger with a teacher who decided to treat a 104 degree temperature and day-long pain by telling him to get a drink of water instead of calling me as instructed.

If I sounded a little ticked in that last line, it’s because I still am.

The emotion is as much anger with that type of ignorance as it is disappointment with a scientific community that still hasn’t defined a CURE for this disease. It’s one of the oldest (if not the oldest) known genetic conditions. And it took how many years for someone to figure out that one teaspoon of penicillin a day could extend these lives to near “normal” length? Come on now.

Today, what we have are bone marrow and stem cell transplants. But because of what the procedures require, both are reserved for the most severe cases: children who have strokes and other debilitating complications. My sweetie is not quite sick enough, it seems, for that morsel of wholeness.

Stem cell transplants are much less invasive, but not yet widespread – reserved still for those who are most ill. Our hematologist, Dr. Wanda Shurney of Children’s Hospital of Michigan, once told me that she believes that his Sickle Cell Anemia will no longer be an issue for him by the time he grows up; that science will have refined the technique to make the transplants more accessible to all those who need one.

He sure can.

Till that fine day arrives, let’s donate, support the research, know your genetics, and say a little prayer for my son and the thousands of children like him. Please.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!
Mom is so glad you’re mine.

Stefanie
www.stefanieworth.com

For more info:
The Sickle Cell Center at Children's Hospital of Michigan
Sickle Cell Disease Association of America
Michigan Citizens for Stem Cell Research and Cures
Sickle Cell Camp

I've got the magic

When I was little, I loved to watch Cinderella – the Rogers & Hammerstein TV version featuring Leslie Warren. My favorite part was when she sang the song, “In My Own Little Corner” about how she could be anything her imagination wanted in that personal space. Now all grown up, I too, have such a magical space. I’ve most commonly heard it referred to as a Writer’s Cave.

At one point, my Cave consisted of a Sauder desk (complete with hutch) that I assembled myself. It has traveled from apartment to flat to my current home, where it originally bounced from a wall in the living room to a place I carved out for it in my bedroom between my lingerie chest and the bed. That's the Cave that birthed Where Souls Collide. Eventually, I relocated the desk to our unfinished basement and staked my first claim on an official writing territory.

I had the pleasure of hearing Beverly Jenkins speak at the Macomb Book Fair and Writers Conference last year where she shared the memory of her first offices; a closet, I believe, and the space under a stairwell. Like her, I have shared my Cave with many a spider over the years. And like the once untamed West, my territory and I have settled into each other.

I traded in the hutch desk for a more expansive corner unit that my oldest son helped me assemble. The hutch became a book and binder holder. I added a bookshelf and shelving unit. The patio blinds I hung to hide behind were replaced by drywall two years ago. (Ooooo!) Can You Believe in The Holiday Inn anthology was born there along with countless ideas for the Future File. And just last month I added another shelving unit to relieve, and retire, the 18-year-old hutch. In this new Cave, I've already conceived two new works in progress.

Just as educators tell parents to ensure that their children have a designated place to study, I think it’s important for writers to have their own little corner -- or Cave -- in the world.

Sure, I can write anywhere really. When pressed, my muse speaks in the car, on a plane, at my kids’ sports and dance practices, or at the park while I watch them play. I even wrote by candlelight when we lost power for two days during a recent snowstorm.

I'm sure my writing center will evolve as my craft continues to blossom. While an attic cove getaway overlooking water and trees would be wonderful, I am so cool with having this place that the entire household knows is MINE. Because when I hustle down the basement stairs, navigate the play area obstacle course before me and arrive at my softly-lit, Feng Shui-esque Cave in the corner, then, the magic begins.

Stefanie
www.stefanieworth.com

Treat yourself to Brandy's rendition of "In My Own Little Corner"