The Art of Hibernation

What this sci-fi geek loves most about hibernation is there is considerable research being done with the intention of applying similar metabolic changes to humans to help them cope with space travel! Because there are physiological and psychological advantages to snoozing through multi-year-long trips, induced hibernation may be just the thing for future astronauts.

As long as I’m writing a novel that includes one person waking from a long cryogenic sleep, I claim--by right of authorial research--the right to liberally practice the fine art of hibernation.

To read more of my musings on this topic, including a note on how to sleep your way to the top, courtesy of Arianna Huffington at TEDwomen, go to GeekMoms.

(Photo of astronaut Sullivan, courtesy of NASA.)

Arguments of Conviction

Dramatic stories revolve around conflict, and I've heard that conflict defined as a moral argument.  I don't like the word "moral" because it seems to imply right and wrong choices, and the most interesting stories include tough choices that aren't easily made.

Even a straight up action-adventure, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade gives the hero an impossible choice.  Should Indy save his father's life by retrieving the Grail, or should he refuse to help the Nazis recover the Grail? For as the story has clearly laid out for us, when Henry lies mortally wounded the only thing that can save him is a drink from the holy cup.  However, we also know that the Grail must not fall into evil hands. 

What I love about this story is more than this one brilliantly crafted moment that puts the hero in that impossibly prickly place.  My friend Jim Fisher calls this "the horns of the dilemma."  I love the thorough way writer Jeff Boam marinated the screenplay with arguments of conviction.  Yesterday I counted a dozen places where characters argue over the significance of the Grail artifact, the object of the quest. (That's a lot of dialog story events between all the chase scenes! And it's likely I missed some.)  

The quest begins with Indy clearly saying he doesn't care about the Grail, only in rescuing his missing father (who not coincidentally disappeared while seeking the location of the Grail). In the following scene Indy asks, "Do you believe the Grail actually exists?" Brody, his intellectual colleague answers, "The search for the Cup of Christ is the search for the divine in all of us." Brody doesn't claim to know if it exists beyond its metaphorical sense, but he clearly gives room for faith in the possibility of a physical cup.

Across Europe Indy argues with Henry about the importance of the finding the Grail first. Henry insists their search is more than archeology, "It's a race against evil." And he means it cannot fall into Nazi hands.  Indy argues with Elsa, beautiful archeologist-turned traitor, that she's aligned herself with the Swastika, implying that he also now believes that the Cup is more than a coveted archeological artifact.

Even side characters argue with conviction.  The bad guy who is financing the Nazi quest for the cup wants eternal life and sees Hitler as a convenient, silent partner in his pursuit for eternal youth. Brody--captured for the map that leads to the secret temple where they find the Grail--warns against, "You are meddling with powers you cannot possibly comprehend."  Vigilantes from a brotherhood sworn to protecting the Grail, die to protect the temple from the Nazi's approach.

These are the arguments that lead up to the final confrontation inside the temple.  The big bad "Nazi stooge" wants everlasting life, yet Indy's been convinced by his father and others that the Grail deserves his protection.  Yet, darn those prickly horns, Indy and Henry have finally begun to mend their estranged relationship.  He needs more time to enjoy his father.  Indy has to save Henry! Can he do it AND keep the Grail from the "unrighteous."

Number IV's due out this summer. Hope it's got the resonance of I & III and is also marinated in theme, laced with arguments of conviction. 

Wisdom from Jim Fisher

Monday Jim Fisher visited my class and lead a workshop in which we developed a couple of story ideas. Both students already had concepts, but one of Jim's gifts is to marry dramatic structure to a crisis of choice for the main character. In class we brainstormed what that crisis would be for each of the stories and what elements would be in place to bring the characters to that terrible place. Both students left with juicier stories.

Here's the essence of what Jim, an alumn of Second City and a working writer with numerous credits for both film and television, taught us:

Understand that if we give a fictional character an easy choice, we get: Who cares? But give a fictional character an impossible choice, say between rescuing her mother and saving the Earth, and we get some heat.

About three-quarters of the way through a story--the Act II climax, a.k.a. the Central Ordeal, a.k.a. Plot Point II, for those who like to locate a turning point in dramaturgy terms--Jim says put the hero in a situation that's "the exact opposite of where the character wants to be. . . . on the horns of the dilemma."

Thanks, Jim, for serving as my muse.

Happy New Year

In honor of the Chinese and Tibetan New Year, the year of the rat, I offer inspiration from another artist. This is a quote from a letter written in 1810 by Ludwig van Beethoven:

"Art! Who comprehends her? With whom can one consult concerning this great goddess?"

So when we're feeling bemused and bewildered by our creative efforts, we can take comfort in knowing that we're in good company. It's a great year.

Recharged and Ready

Last night I went to a rollicking BLIZZARD of super short plays at the Bloomington Playwrights Project. There were so many titles performed by a company of artists that I lost track of names and numbers. Some made me laugh, some made me think, some left me bewildered (as in, what was that supposed to be about?). In short, I got a solid dose of variety. At least twenty different authors put out a little bit of themselves and shared their creative vibe with me. 

And I feel nourished! Ready to tackle the next outline. Ready to write the next scene filled with dreaded feelings of betrayal.

Thank you for your generosity, B.P.P. and the Blizzardites. I extend that thanks to every artist who has ever given something of his or herself to the world.

More rewriting!*! Do I have to?

As I flesh out my set-up, creating a fuller storyworld and building its inherent opposition to the main character and her family, I've been surprised that I'm also reconsidering the ending. I don't mean that it's not working. I love the ending. It's very powerful. Exciting, visual, emotional. Rather, I may have too much story and perhaps the novel Green Tara ends earlier than it has in previous drafts.

I'll digress. I've always imagined this story as the first part of a trilogy. Part I - Virginia finds her missing mom on the planet Green Tara. Together with her cousin, Gordy, they collect living ocean greens--the oxygenators, if you will. And when her dad tracks them down and reconnects, they all travel to Earth and replenish the dead ocean waters. Of course, the novel goes into 133 pages of detail for all this to happen.

I have sketched out Parts II and III in a similar general story arc, but I have yet to work them out in any detail. One thing at a time, right? . . . Maybe.

Back to the current rewrite of Part I: I'm taking more time to set up the nature of the controlling entity, the Triumvirate, in the beginning. And I'm reincorporating direct conflict via a pair of Triumvirate sentries in a scene that comes later in the story. I want to get these fixes done and get this story out the door.

But my instincts are saying, Don't rush it. Take the time in Part I to know the larger threat and to feel the dissonance of a family fraught with betrayal. End it with Virginia's family reunited, and leaving the lush sanctuary to begin the next phase of their journey. I can combine rescuing Gordy's mom and restoring Earth's oceans in Part II. (The other missing mom is, after all, hiding out in the Mars colony and has been waiting for the rest of the family for years.)

Am I dawdling on this one manuscript, just because I'm afraid to get it to publishers and to hear all their objections? Or have I found a more elegant way to divide the trilogy? The only way I'll know, is to outline Part II. And while I'm at it, outline Part III.

Ouch. Outlining's the toughest, makes-my-brain-hurt part of the process.

Do I have to?

I heard that George Lucas outlined all of the Star Wars saga before he made "Part IV" and that Jo K. Rowling outlined all seven of her novels before Harry made it big. If they're my muses, I must follow their lead.

Writing is . . .

Writing is like polishing a mirror.

~Anon

Newton Said

He got his original ideas by standing "on the shoulders of giants." Let's follow his lead.

Or even better: Snatch raw truths fresh from eternity.

Lightning* Writing --a daily warm-up exercise

Inspired by Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg

The goal of this warm-up exercise is to keep our hands moving across the page. It is a writing practice that is done without self judgement.

No attention is given to spelling or grammar. No attention is given to "good" or "lovely" words, "fly" or "marketable" ideas, "gripping" or "sympatico" characters.

Our full attention is given to stringing words together, one after another. Our goal is to envoke our subconscious creative source. Some days the writing will be extraordinarily lame. That's good and as it should be. But sometimes we'll actually strike gold and discover something wonderful, like a character's deepest fear or the most hilarious line of dialog.

Instructions: Begin with a simple prompt, such as "I remember . . . Or I smell . . . I want to write . . . " If you realize that your hand is no longer moving, write the prompt down and begin again. Write without thinking for 20 minutes.

TIP: We're inviting the muse to come and play. If we open that dialog every day she'll join us, sometimes when we least expect it.

* notes on the name: "Lightning writing" is Goldberg's name. Because I first came to this practice when I read her book, that's what I call it. (I've noticed many other writers describe a similar practice, but call it different names.) 'Lightning' might refer to speed, though I don't believe speed is the goal. For me the 'lightning' refers to a still place where a spark of inspiration may strike and, if the conditions are right, light a fire. The bonus is when I practice regularly, I notice a lightening that goes with everything I do, from creative efforts to less attractive chores.