Another take on Vonnegut's Seventh Rule

I was thrilled to be asked to guest post on www.fictionmatters.com:

I'm intrigued by the concept of Vonnegut’s Seventh Rule, which essentially is to write for one person rather than the whole world. I’ve never really considered writing for the whole world; instead, I find myself writing for my main character. After all, if I don’t tell his story, no one else will. And if I can tell the story to his satisfaction, I’m certain to end up happy with it as well.

(Side note: I’m rather enjoying the fact that Vonnegut would’ve hated that semicolon in the preceding paragraph.)

I think one’s instinctive audience is deeply intertwined with one’s creative process. Every (good) story I’ve written has started because a protagonist popped into my mind, in a sort of reverse-Athena-birthing, whispering urgently that they must tell me about this thing. Or I’ll get a sudden image of this person - who’s never occurred to me before - in the middle of an intriguing action, and realize I must know what happened next. Or maybe I do know what happened next, and before too, and realize that for his sake and mine, I must tell his story, now now now.

There are some great advantages to this approach, in my opinion. My protagonists become close friends of mine, because I take their stories seriously, and they know I’m listening. Writing for them helps me with characterization quite a lot, because they’re driving the story so much that all I have to do is pay attention, and a thousand tiny details come forth with relatively little effort.

It also helps me with developing other characters. Since the secondary characters are all there because they’re a part of the protagonist’s life, I tend to see them from the protag’s point of view. How they respond to the main character, and how he responds to them, helps me understand both people better. The drawback, not surprisingly, is that this can make my secondary characters a bit flat at times. But hey, that’s why we have revision, right? I’m a big believer in getting the first draft down on paper and worrying about making it great on the next go-round or twenty.

Another thing I love about this approach is that the inspiration is all wrapped up with it. Whatever inner emotion makes this character so urgent, so insistent that I tell their story, tends to be one of the main themes. Even better, since that passion is innately contained within their personality, I typically don’t have to put a lot of conscious thought into the character’s motivation. It seems natural that the protagonist’s motivation and the story’s overall themes are linked in a necessary - indeed, inextricable - way. Granted, I may not fully understand that motivation or the themes until I’m knee-deep in the story, but I just keep trusting my main character and in time, all is revealed.

Focusing on telling this specific character’s story to his satisfaction helps me to hone in on the plot, too, even if I can’t see all the way to the end when I first start jotting down the scenes and images that occur to me. If I start to get lost, or bogged down, I can turn to the protagonist and say, “Sorry, what were we talking about? I got a little distracted.” In a very real sense, the protagonist is like a guide leading me along an unfamiliar trail through the forest. It doesn’t feel like I’m making up his story; I’m listening to it, asking questions, and writing as fast as I can.

the marvelous world

(we now interrupt the story revision in progress to bring you the following poem...)

the marvelous world

stay beside me, love, for all my days and nights
hold my hands in yours, sing to me adventures
of heroes and true love and the marvelous world;
look in my eyes and tell me in wordless joy.

hold my hands in yours, sing to me adventures;
walk by my side and make me laugh to tears.
look in my eyes and tell me in wordless joy
of the infinite sky, the vast ocean dreaming.

walk by my side and make me laugh to tears;
when the storms come, I shelter in your arms.
the infinite sky, the vast ocean dreaming -
how they roil and rage, shine and sing.

when the storms come, I shelter in your arms.
we are safe in each other, fire and air in sacred flame;
how they roil and rage, shine and sing -
how the ancient earth envies our life together.

we are safe in each other, fire and air, sacred flame;
we are constant and changing, we are beauty and art.
how the ancient earth envies our life together;
the old stories are true, but never so true as now.

we are constant and changing, we are beauty and art,
heroes and true love and the marvelous world:
the old stories are true, but never so true as now.
stay beside me, love, for all my days and nights.


...And now, a little context.

There is an absolutely amazing and wonderful woman named Kate - well, I am sure there are a lot of amazing and wonderful Kates, but this one is superlatively so and has been one of my dearest friends for lo, these many years.

Three years ago, Kate read a poem I wrote at my wedding - called, perhaps unsurprisingly, true love. And now, at the end of June, Kate will marry an excellent guy named Andrew (I don't know him as well, but he seems fully worthy to be her life partner, and I can give no man higher praise than that).

To my great honor, Kate has asked me to read a poem at her wedding, preferably one that I wrote. She did give me the option to read something someone else wrote, but I love her very much and wanted to do something original as a gift to them.

So there I was, faced with the task of writing a non-cheesy poem about love, something that would deserve to be read at the wedding of one of my best friends. After about 83,000 attempts, I finally drafted the poem above. I've put it through a few revisions by now, but I have until June 27th to make it perfect, or as close to perfect as I can get it.

You can therefore see, dear reader, why your feedback is much needed and appreciated.

A word on the form - this type of poem is called a pantoum. As you may already know, pantoums are a type of poetry that originated in Malaysia. There is little structure besides the pattern of repetition of the lines - no set number of syllables or stanzas, no rhyme scheme, no scansion. It's one of my favorite forms of poetry; the repeating pattern creates this great tension, then the pattern of the last stanza provides a fantastic catharsis.

A word to the wise - should you wish to attempt your first pantoum, may I suggest you drive it with verbs. At least, that's the only way I can ever figure out how to make 'em work.

Anyway, please let me know what you think. Much obliged!

Mississippi - Chapter Five: What would Studs Terkel say?

Time's so strange, the way it runs fast and slow. This afternoon feels like one of the longest of my life. Otto is on his third beer, making quiet conversation, and I'm barely talking. I just want to sit here and listen to him, feel the cadence of his voice rolling over me, wrapping me up.

I want to believe what he's saying he would tell only to me, but I know it's not true. Otto can talk to anyone, and does; one of those friends of the world that's hard to get under the surface of. Still, like me, he's lived in this town for a long time and has a lot of friends around here. Already one of our other regulars, Theo, has come and gone again after a beer's worth of catching up.

The sunlight from the windows is ebbing, shrinking back towards the windows, and it raises a sudden yearning in me. For just a second, I allow myself to hope for this baby - not that I am pregnant, the other side of my brain chimes in - that I might get to hold it and look into its eyes and hear its voice as it squalls out its protestations at being thrust into the cold, bright world.

But the image is replaced by one of my dead baby in my arms, so still and silent and grayish-white. I couldn't stand to go through it again. The only thing that kept me going was Eric, and if I'm alone this time... I look at Otto and try to tune back into what he's saying, but I can't concentrate.

Who is he? We just started to get to know each other not long before we hooked up at that party, even though we've hung out in the same circles for years. He's an unknown quantity, is what he is, I say to myself, suddenly realizing that I'm a little buzzed from the beer I've been drinking. I stand up and pour myself an ice water, and Otto interrupts himself to ask for one too.

"So anyway, there we are, stuck in the middle of the fucking desert," he continues, telling me an apparently hilarious story from his road trip that I haven't listened to at all. I'd better start paying attention, I think, and try to focus on what he's saying. All I can think about is whether what he says shows signs of being a good dad or not.

"Hey," Otto cuts into my thoughts, "are you okay? You seem preoccupied with something. You sure you don't want me to find somewhere else to crash?" My hand is resting on the bar, and he covers it with his. I look down; his hand is huge, and his fingernails are short and a little ragged. I lace my fingers through his.

"No, I'm good. You're welcome to stay with me." I smile at him and lean across the counter for a kiss. Might as well enjoy it for what it's worth. "I'm going to go have a smoke. Want to join me?"

We go out front so I can keep an eye on any incoming customers. This is one of the depths of the off-season, so it's not likely anyone would stop by on a late Sunday afternoon, but you never know. It's cold outside, crisp, probably about 40 degrees. Otto lights his cigarette and starts pacing up and down on the sidewalk in front of the store, gesturing with the smoke as he talks.

I watch the cars going by and a couple walking on the other side of the street, farther down the block. I feel a twinge in my abdomen and try to ignore it. The other side of my brain is circling thoughts of implantation, of the sac your body builds as a stopgap while it makes the placenta. I take another pull off my cigarette and look at it, listening to Otto talk with half my attention; I have no idea why he's on to state taxes in Nevada now. Apparently it relates to the conditions of the roads there.

Before my first pregnancy ended, it'd been years since I quit smoking. I started again after Eric left, about two years ago. If I'm pregnant, I'll have to quit again, I thought. I look at Otto, trying to imagine him with a two-year-old perched on his shoulders, laughing against the bright winter sky.

Otto has finally finished ranting about road conditions in the Southwest and draws close to me again. "So, listen," he says, putting his arm around me, "can I take my stuff over to your place?"

I raise an eyebrow. "How much stuff do you have?" He laughs. I wasn't joking. I exhale my cigarette smoke through my nose; he drops his arm, tucks his thumbs in his back pockets.

"Not much. Couple duffle bags and a couple coolers in the car. The rest of my stuff's in storage, in those rental units up on Higginbotham Flats, but I don't really need it." He starts talking about minimalist living on the road, and I study his face. Strong jaw; long-lashed brown eyes; that perfect, perfect mouth. Just enough stubble to look sexy as hell, and a mole right near the outer corner of his left eye. Otto smiles, and says, "So do you have a spare key?"

I stub out my cigarette and we go back in so I can retrieve my keys from my purse. I tell him where the extra key is, in the kitchen, and he promises to stop back by before I get off work this evening. He pauses in the doorway. "Got any dinner plans?"

I shake my head. "You do now," he grins before he walks out, the bell clanging as he pulls the door shut.

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I'll pretend I'm being interviewed by Studs Terkel. "I have no idea what it means," I say aloud to the empty shop. "I'm just trying to get by one day at a time."

Okay, mad props to @FictionMatters...

We now interrupt this story for random homage to tweeps & Vonnegut...

So I joined Twitter not too long ago. I'm loving the interaction with other writers, getting to read other folks' blogs, discussing craft & technique etc etc. It's wonderful - a lot like real-life writing workshops, except that you actually get to choose whose writing you read. :)

Anyway, one of my Twitter feeds is @FictionMatters, who deserves some mad props for two things. First, he used Star Wars to analyze successful development of a villain's character, and anyone who can use Star Wars to explain, well, anything is pretty much awesome in my book.

Second, he recently blogged a separate post on each of Vonnegut's 6 rules of writing. Let it be known that I am a HUGE Vonnegut fan. I adore the man. In fact, I started this entire blog because I was so upset when he died, and I needed a place to vent. And in addition to a wonderfully creative and unique perspective, Vonnegut was a damn good writer. So his rules - which I had seen before, sometime in my halcyon days of youth, and then promptly forgotten - are quite useful.

So, not to steal from Fiction Matters, but for my writing friends that aren't on Twitter (join! now!), here is the list. Talk about perfect timing - I plan to use these, especially #4, to help me with my revisions to 'Mississippi'. You can read a discussion of each rule at http://www.fictionmatters.com/.

Kurt Vonnegut's Rules of Writing:

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

6. Be a sadist. No matter sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them-in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

Mississippi - Chapter Four: The prodigal friend with benefits

I expected my heart to jump up in my throat when I saw Otto, but I still wasn't prepared for how good he looked. The month on the road treated him well. He has his back to me, chatting with Bob, and I take in his broad shoulders, thin waist, strong arms. He looks tan against his off-white cable sweater. His hair's grown, too; he had it back in a ponytail before, but it was only a couple inches long then. Now it almost reaches his shoulders. "Hey, stranger," I say, walking up next to him.

He turns and grins at me, and I can't help grinning back. Otto has that kind of smile. He opens his arms and hugs me, nestling his chin into the curve of my neck, murmuring, "You smell good," in my ear before releasing me and stepping back. He looks me up and down, and I stand there feeling like a fuckin' teenager and let him.

Otto shakes his head. "Damn, you look great, Ava," he says, sliding the right side of his mouth back into a wry smile as he sits down on one of the barstools. "How ya been?"

"Not bad," I reply, walking behind the bar. "What'll you have?" I turn my back to pick up a pint glass, relieved to be able to look away. It's hard to meet his eyes and not throw myself at him. I wonder what Bob thinks of all this; he's a pretty savvy guy. I pause by the taps and look back at Otto, waiting for his response.

"Hell, I don't know," he says. "What's the Sled Ride like?"

"It's a seasonal from Fountain Creek Brewery. It's not bad. Want to try a taste?" I switch the pint glass for a sampler, and hand it to him, trying not to stare at him while he considered it.

"Yeah, that's pretty good. I'll take one of those. Got any lunch specials today?" he says, looking at me with that merry glint in his eye. My heart picks up speed, and I restrain myself from saying something like "Yeah - me, on the kitchen counter." I settle for putting my elbows on the bar in front of him and leaning in a bit.

"What do you want?" God help me, I could not keep that tone out of my voice to save my life. The look he gives me in response makes me smile and look away. He pauses, thinking about it.

"Well, I guess for lunch, a cottage pie sounds good." He hands the menu back to me. "For dessert, I don't know."

"Well, you've got all day to figure it out," I reply, taking the menu. "Bob, you want another one?"

Bob pushes his stool back and stands up. "Naw," he says. "I gotta go by the store before I go home. 'Sides, I'd better get out of here 'fore it gets too hot and heavy." Otto and I laugh. Bob winks at me, throws a ten on the counter and leaves.

"I'll get the pie started," I tell Otto, and walk into the kitchen. I turn on the oven, open the fridge and retrieve a cottage pie that I made yesterday. I put it on a tray and slide it into the oven, setting the timer for twenty minutes. When I turn around, Otto is standing about four feet away from me, his hands in his pockets, just watching me with that inscrutable look on his face.

I don't know why, I just walked over to him and kissed him. And he kissed me back. And I have no idea how long that timer was going off before we finished screwing, because I only noticed it after. I can barely bring myself to leave him long enough to walk across the kitchen and turn the damn timer off. I open the oven door to let some of the heat out, and return to Otto, who has one of the most beautiful mouths I've ever seen on a man.

"Lunch is ready," I say between kisses. I love this part of a relationship, the we-just-started-having-sex part, when your bodies are still new to each other and you're hungry, eating each other up. Eventually we get back out into the bar. He tucks into the cottage pie and I put some music on the stereo.

I wash up the glasses Bob used and set them in the drying rack. I move my stool from the other end of the bar to down where Otto is sitting, and sit down with my beer. People walk briskly by the front windows. I can see the wind shaking the bare branches of the trees, making women wrap their coats around themselves tighter, making men hunch their shoulders and pull their hats down over their ears. It's warm inside the Pines, cosy. I'm glad I turned on the gas fireplace when I was getting the shop ready this morning.

While Otto eats, I sip my beer and try to just let myself believe it could always be this easy. Great sex, peaceful mornings, an effortless, quiet togetherness. I'm working myself up to start a conversation that was probably a very bad idea - something along the lines of, "So, want to get married?" when Otto finishes his lunch, set his silverware in the bowl and pushes it away from him. He wipes his mouth and throws the napkin on top of the silverware in the bowl.

"So," he says, looking me in the eyes for the first time since we left the kitchen. "Any chance I could crash at your place for a couple nights?"

My stomach sinks. I look back out the front windows again. He didn't give a shit about me, not anything permanent or deep anyway. He just needed a free place to sleep, and some bonus sex wasn't a bad thing. What was I thinking? Friends with benefits, that's what we are, that dangerous little phrase that sounds so simple and carries such complexity with it. But on the other hand, I think, a little bonus sex isn't such a bad thing at all. I wouldn't mind sharing my bed for a couple nights. And maybe I'll take a test and find out I am pregnant and then at least he'll be there, and we could talk about it.

Not likely, the other side of my brain says. I ignore it. "Yeah, that's fine," I agree.

Mississippi - Chapter Three: Mirror, mirror...

The bar in the Pines is topped with old, dark wood, sealed with something to make it gleam and protect it from the keys and knives of idle drunks, who try to cut their initials anyway. Bob is tracing someone's 'H' with the edge of his thumbnail when I come back into the front.

I realize all of a sudden that it's too quiet, and walk over to the receiver. Bob looks up at me with a little frown as I walk by. He reminds me of a wizened old turtle peering out from under his shell. "What's goin' on, honey?" he asks.

I put on a mechanical smile. "Oh, I'm just kind of preoccupied right now. Jason left the bar a mess again, and I can't decide what I should do about it." I turn my mp3 player onto shuffle, cross my arms and lean against the counter.

Bob shoots me a narrow look, and I'll bet he can tell I'm lying. But I damn well don't want to talk about it at the bar, and I know Bob won't give me a hard time for staying quiet. Bob understands loyalty, as he's told me many times while he's in his cups. "Well, I know he's young, but he's a good kid. Seems to bring in a fair amount of business, too," he plays along.

I sigh. "Yeah. I don't think I can fire him. But I'm gonna tell him to get his ass in gear." Bob laughs.

"Good for you, honey. Everything else all right?" There was that suspicious turtle look again.

I shrug. "I guess. 'Bout as good as it's gonna be, huh?" I reply. Bob gives another laugh, not fooled a whit.

"Well, you know you got a friend in me, if you need to talk," he says, watching his fingernail rub against the bar again. I nod.

"Thanks, Bob. You want another beer?"

"Yeah, pour me one more, honey. Why don't you have one yourself, on me." Bob crosses his arms and sits back on his barstool. "You seem tense," he announces, watching me pour the drinks. I hand him his Guinness and shake my head.

"Just a couple things on my mind." I flash him another smile, a real one this time. "It's always something, running this place." We clink glasses and drink.

It's funny how you can almost sense your cell phone ringing before you hear it. I set my glass on the counter and tilt my head. "I think that's my phone. Be right back." I pull the phone out of my bag, which is now hanging from a coathook behind the bar, and walk back into the kitchen. When I see the caller ID I freeze, mid-stride, then flip the phone open with a cautious, "Hello?" "

"Hey Ava, it's me, Otto," I hear, and my heart jumps up into my throat. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm at work," I say, trying to keep my voice calm. "What are you up to?"

"Ah, nothin' much. I just got back into town, was thinking about getting some lunch," Otto replies casually.

"Well, you're welcome to come by the Pines, we've got the best lunch menu in town," I say, then immediately put my hand over my face and shake my head. The same hand rakes my hair back from my face and I look around the kitchen feeling like a trapped animal, like there's got to be a way out.

"Cool. I'll be down in a few," Otto says, and hangs up. I stand there holding my cell phone for a second, then suddenly turn and leave the kitchen, dropping my phone in my bag on the way to the bathrooms. I feel like I'm watching someone else move through my life.

"Doing okay, Bob?" I call out as I pass him; he's immersed in one of the weekly local papers and gives an absent wave in reply. I shut the bathroom door and flick on the light, approaching myself in the mirror until I'm only a few inches away.

I rarely looks at myself in the mirror anymore. Not since the baby died. I do a quick check each morning to make sure my outfit doesn't look stupid, and that's it. At first, I just hadn't wanted to see all the weight I'd gained. I was counting on nursing a baby to help lose the weight - everyone said it worked like a dream - but my daughter died five weeks before her due date, and when all was said and done, all I was really left with was an unending, gaping sorrow and about twenty-five extra pounds of memories.

After Eric left me, it got even worse. I sank into a deep, quiet depression, going through the days like a glass-eyed robot, packing my flask and one-hitter along wherever I went. I'd stopped eating, for the most part, forcing some food down about once a day; people congratulated me for getting into shape. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing in their faces and carried a travel-size bottle of mouthwash in my purse so they couldn't smell the alcohol. Now as I look at my own face in the mirror, meeting my eyes, the tears well up again. I will them back down.

"Just stop it," I whisper fiercely. "Get a fucking grip, girl." I hear the bell attached to the front door ring and freeze again. The front door slams shut. "Hey, Bob, what's goin' on, brother?" Otto's voice rings out.

That was fast, I think, meeting my eyes in the mirror again. I splash some water on my face and dry it off with the scratchy, thin paper towel, then quickly lean over so my hair hangs down, fluff it with my hands, and flip it back as I straighten up. I look back in the mirror again, but my reflection just looks back at me. I take in a long, deep breath, put on a wry smile and open the bathroom door.

Mississippi - Chapter Two: Numbering the Days

I like to save opening the windowshades for last, when I clean the shop in the morning. I love the way the squares of light slide across the floor, stretching like a person putting on a favorite old sweater.

I keep finding myself muttering as I clean, pausing and staring into space without even realizing it. I'm too wrapped up in my thoughts; I want out of my head. "I know, I know," I tell myself. "Calm down, fer chrissakes."

It takes me a lot longer than usual to sweep and mop and wipe down the counters, so I don't get to the windowshades til just before I unlock the front door at eleven. I stand there, my hand on the first cord, and look around the shop for a moment.

It's dim in here, faint sheens of light gleaming off the polished wood trim; I don't turn the lights on til it gets dark, so in the early morning it's lit only by what filters through and around the edges of the windowshades. It smells like books, and I close my eyes and inhale the comforting scent. I'm lucky to have the Pines, although frankly, I'd rather have my mother; I bought this place with some of the money she left me. "Miss you, Mom," I say out loud to the Pines.

I feel like I'm living in some sort of dream, I think as I take a last look around the shop. My hand pulls on the cord, and the shade draws up, showing a man standing just outside the door.

I flinch instinctively, then realize it's just Bob and relax. I unlock the door and open it for him. "Come on in, Bob," I greet him. "Don't often have you waiting on the doorstep. How's it going?"

"Be a hell of a lot better after I get a beer in me, I can tell you that, honey," Bob drawled, strolling inside. "Yeah, I was kinda embarrassed to be camped out there, but I'm hungry as shit." Bob's one of my favorite regulars, a transplant from Georgia who likes to pretend he's a crusty old bastard.

**********************************************************
We pause here to get ready for our normal workday, but are giving serious thought to switching the narrative to all first-person. When I first wrote the story, I switched back and forth on different chapters from first to third person. This was an experiment in converting the third person to first, and I like how it feels. I guess I just worry that the first person POV with this storyline will get too narcissistic or something. You can read the original draft of the chapter here.
... A day later, back to the experiment.
**********************************************************

"Oh yeah? You want a nice salad?" I try to keep a straight face. One of Bob's favorite rants is against 'weeds', as he terms salads made with lettuce other than iceberg. He shoots me a look that could blister paint and I laugh, walking behind the bar and starting a pint of Guinness for him. I throw a coaster on the bar and leave the pint to settle for a minute.

"Trudy's up in Denver all day today, at some damn craft show or somethin'," Bob says. We bullshit back and forth, and I top off the Guinness and place it in front of him. He breaks into a wide, lazy smile, just looking at the full pint for a moment with his cheek propped on his hand, and then lifts the glass to me in a silent toast.

After his first swallow, Bob smacks his lips and sets the beer on the counter. "Guinness is good for you," he quotes.

I shake my head. "I know it is, believe me. Hey, we got in some new bestsellers yesterday, did you see them?" Bob gets up and wanders over to browse the bookshelves, taking his beer with him.

I slip back into the kitchen, still trapped in my thoughts, and find myself clutching the edge of the counter white-knuckled fingers. I can see myself, half-obscured, in the dull reflection of the stainless steel countertop. My nausea is gone, leaving instead a gnawing anxiety in the pit of my stomach.

I take a deep breath, lean against the counter, take a long gulp of beer. What now? Take a test, right, that was the first step. I look at the pint glass in my hand, think about the pot and cigarettes in my purse. I think about the long, long journey of my first pregnancy and how it ended.

Suddenly I find myself halfway across the room, on my way to my cell phone, and I stop myself short. I take another deep breath, hold my palms out like I'm holding something off. I make myself turn around and cross to the fridge, pulling out bowls of prepped vegetables and shoving them onto the counter.

"What good would it do to call Eric?" I argue with myself. "He's gone. He left. We've been through this shit already. It's not even his kid. Not that I'm definitely pregnant."

I find myself staring at my hand moving aimlessly back and forth across the counter, as if it belonged to someone else. The memory of laying on that table is still so vivid: the ultrasound technician nervous and trying to stay professional, the endless wait for my daughter's heart to start beating again, not understanding that it never would; asking the doctor if they could resuscitate her, and the doctor's answer.

It's been three years and three months. I cross the kitchen again, pulling the calendar off the wall, flipping through it. November 11th. Three years, three months and three days exactly from August 8th. "Eight eight," I say aloud, staring at the calendar without really seeing it. "Eleven eleven." And I could not stop my tears.