Monday, August 9, 2010

Mission Accomplished.

I am happy to say that I have now successfully impregnated my MC.
Okay. First of all: new rule.
'MC' no longer stands for Miley Cyrus on here.
It now stands for main character.

I am referring to my main character, Cynthia Jacobson. I've struggled with her from the get-go because she is not at all like me. She's all sharp angles, hard edges, cat eye glasses,Versace suits,Virginia Slims and obnoxious eye rolling.
So to write a sex scene involving her seemed daunting to me.
But I was surprised to find out that was friskier than I thought.
I do not write with an outline, which means that I am learning as I go about my characters and their motivations. Just like I do on here, I just write about whatever flits into my head.
Somehow, eventually, it's always something, even when I sit down and think "I've got nothing. Nada."

Cynthia, as it turns out, is not nearly as unlikeable as I portrayed her in Having Grace.
In fact, I think there might be a part of me in her, after all.
I can probably come off as all sharp angles and hard edges sometimes, too.
I think it's mainly because I suck at small talk. I do not know why our society demands so much of it of us.
For example, my doomed relationship with Jane.
I think I might have alienated her with the first sentence that came out of my mouth.
"I'm so! glad! Payton lives on the same block as us!" she said when we first discovered that we were (ick) neighbours. "Some of the kids that live around are here sort of... rough," she whispered.
"I know," I said, trying to be nice. "I saw a little boy across the street playing with a cap gun. Like, where are his parents, hey?"
"That's my son, Zach," she replied, defensively.
"Oh. Well. I didn't mean anything by it. I just. I didn't think they sold cap guns anymore."
But I think the damage was done.
And then, of course, there was the ill fated elevator conversation with the hot guy.
Technically, I guess I can't really call it a conversation. Since, technically, I didn't actually say anything.
One of the reasons that I suck at small talk, I think, is because I'm a nurse. In nursing, there is no small talk.

"Hello, Mrs. Chester. How are you today?"
"Ugh. I'm shitting blood again. My husband thought I delivered a baby in the toilet this morning."
"The hemorrhoids are back, you mean? I thought the banding surgery went so well?"

I'm not saying that I would rather talk about what or what not may be hanging our of your ass than say, the weather or how fast the summer's going (which- OK, it is going fast, I'll give you that) or what have you.
I'm just saying.
Let's be real.


Joann Mannix said...

I am a pantser, too. I don't outline. It just comes. Now, if something comes to me in the middle of the night or when picking up kids, I do have my trusty notebook by my side, but no. And isn't it funny how that works? I'll think a character doesn't have a modicum of me in them, but then, there is that moment when I realize, that oh, yeah, there's that, and that.

nikki said...

I am the worst at small talk!!!! Way worse than anyone! You are definitely up there with me though!