As writers, we are tempted to write anything BUT what those giants represent. Re-visiting them is too hard. It opens us up and makes us vulnerable again. We might even shed a tear or become so depressed thinking about it, that we won't be productive again the rest of the day.
But I say it's high time we faced those giants head on. Because when we do, it will give our stories the emotional impact they need to grab the reader and never let go.
Call it pawning the giants off on some innocent reader if you like. Hey, they asked for it when they picked up a book to read, didn't they? They weren't looking for a book about macrame--they were looking for a story that would move them in some way.
I'm not talking about nonfiction, as in memoirs, biographies, or autobiographies, as those will have some different rules. You can't expect to write about Aunt Angie's hideous bunions that gave you nightmares and not expect her or her progeny to be offended. I'm talking about fiction and how you can use your real experiences to fuel the events of your FICTIONAL characters.
Though it can be very hard, sometimes you gotta look those giants in the eyes and tell them exactly how you feel by transplanting your actual emotions to the page.
Hard as it was, I had to tap into that grief and let Caliphany express it as she stood like I had, strong, yet weakened by her loss, as she was here:
I half expected him to walk across the pavilion, the waves of people parting as he passed. That mountain of a man, leveled to nothing before my eyes. I took the hands of faceless guests, nodded my acknowledgement of their condolences, and prayed for something, anything, to take our pain away.
The morning after my mom died, I remember waking up in her house, in my old room. Sunlight brightened the windows. Birds sang in the walnut trees. It was a beautiful October morning, but the house was too quiet. Her kitchen radio wasn't playing the local buy/sell/trade call-in show. There was no smell of bacon or sausage or her funny admonitions of "Stop that!" when the grease would pop out and burn her hands. Life had dared to go on without her.
Caliphany had to face her father's absence from life too.
The manor seemed so lifeless when I visited my mother the next morning. Without Father there, the place was too vast, like a labyrinth of endless space. Clocks ticked, insistent reminders of time moving on when we didn't want it to.
Remember, you can base your characters' struggles on yours, but they are NOT YOU, so draw from conflicts you have read, heard about, or seen to add variety and originality.
Take Serenya, for instance, in Serenya's Song. She was bullied in school for her deformity, as I was for the scars on my cheeks and my glasses. As bullying can do, it left a long-lasting impression on me (and her) in terms of crippling low self-esteem. I am very fortunate to have never been the victim of domestic violence, but I used what I've seen and read to portray how Serenya's poor self-image makes her vulnerable to the cruelty of her husband.
He grabbed my fingers and bent them back until the tendons stretched and protested with pain. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. My heart pounded a warning in my ears. Hot, alcohol-laden breath, a mixture of ale and brandy, steamed through Sebastian’s clenched teeth, heating my face with its putrid stench.
I tried to pull away from him, but he pushed closer, trapping my body between him and the desk. “Please,” I whispered as the hot sting of tears blurred my vision, “you’ve been drinking. Go to bed and sleep it off.”
Sebastian’s grip loosened a bit. He brought my fingers to his lips and sucked the tips one by one. His tongue lingered on each pointed nail. “You see,” he said, pausing between my middle and ring finger, “I’m the only one who can love you like this.”
And lucky for Serenya, I gave her a strong ally in Lillyanne. Wish I'd have had her growing up!
Dear Lillyanne Sawyer—it was so good to see her again. A few years older than me, she was like the big sister I never had, even though I’d passed her halfling height years ago. I think she pummeled every school kid who ever looked at me the wrong way.
My husband and I grew up in a small town. We moved back to another one shortly after our first child was born. Relocating to an unfamiliar small town is harder, I think, than relocating to a city, where there are plenty of other transplants like yourself. It took us a full nine years to start feeling like we belonged in the last town we lived in. Though we did make some very good friends, we couldn't shrug off that "You're not from around here, are you?" mentality. And the gossip...oh the gossip! Every time I sat in the local hair salon, I heard dirt on people I didn't know from Adam (I guess because I "wasn't from around there").
Unlike Serenya, I didn't face anyone shunning me over a physical deformity, but I played up the uglier bits of small town politics I'd witnessed to show how Serenya and Jayden both face scrutiny in their little town of Summerwind. Take this conversation Serenya overhears in the tavern:
“What happened to Lady Crowe?”
"You know she’s different—always wears those gloves.”
“Something’s not right. I knew it ever since Barnaby and that daughter of his moved here.”
I know many friends who have been the unfortunate victims of racism and prejudice, and I don't think I'd have taken it with half the grace that they have. Jayden (a wood-elf) experiences some racism as he's investigating the occurrences involving a strange portal. The halfling farmers are not happy in the least:
|Photo by Acwaith, DeviantArt.com|