Blogfest 2009

Oh, absolutely! I hope they don’t take me away in a straitjacket for answering this, but when I have a particularly dramatic scene and I’m really into the book, I act it out, playing all the various parts. (I only do this when there’s nobody else in the house.) That’s how I get some of my best lines from both heroines and villains. At the time of creating the scene I am the heroine or villain. And the books I consider my better books come to me as if I were listening to them, not writing them. As I once said of a writer who had written a single book that I adored and a number of books that I found rather disappointing, “The angel Gabriel must have come down, taken hold of her pen, and written that one for her.” And the funny thing was that when I met this authoress, she surprised me by saying that that particular book I adored was written much faster than her other books, almost “as if someone else was writing it.” I can only guess that all those characters were part of her and clamoring to come out.

I know that for myself, all my characters are parts of me, some better parts than others. And when a book is easy to write, it’s because the characters take charge and do what they choose. I can only follow along, trying to keep up with them.

Well, I’m sort of trapped here because I can’t choose between two.  I would like to be both 1) endowed with super strength and 2) a healer.  It might seem that these serve two completely different purposes, but they’re connected in a way.

The strength part is so that I would never again feel intimidated by anyone or anything.  As it is, I’m a wimp.  I’m not a black belt in karate, I don’t know tae kwon do, oki doki, or deja fu, I’m strongly pro-gun control (and I certainly can’t shoot), and I know I would forget everything I’ve learned in self-defense lessons if an angry lion was trying to climb inside my window (don’t laugh; I saw the video of this happening!).  But if I had super-strength, I wouldn’t be afraid to walk the streets of San Francisco at night.  I would run around, saving the weak and innocent from the strong and evil, and I would also ensure that the villains weren’t killed, just held for trial.

But then I would also want to heal anyone who’d been wounded, even using my life force if necessary.  I can’t think of anything sweeter than that: to heal the good guys, while the bad guys sit around trussed up at my feet like Thanksgiving turkeys.  Put it this way: if I could prevent injury to innocent people, I’d give up my healing power in order to save the innocent with super strength.  If I couldn’t stop violence or accidents from harming people, I’d give up anything to be a healer, and I’d cure as many people as possible.  I could even go from hospital to hospital, curing patients.  Yes, I think healing wins out over strength in the end.

I was writing before I knew it was called writing. I mean, I was making up both stories and free-form poetry before I could read. Unlike authors who were prodigies, I didn’t learn to read until I was taught it in first grade, but I certainly knew how to make up a story. Astro-Boy, a Japanese anime character, was often my companion in my early fiction, but every movie I saw or book that was read to me got at least a try to see if I would fit into its world. (Including the wonderful D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths, which made a huge impression on me—after that my companions were fauns and dryads, centaurs, nymphs, and demi-gods.)

And I constantly, silently, made up stories in my head based on whatever I was doing. Like, what might happen if . . . the door to the abandoned house on our block was really the doorway to another planet. Or to a land where unfairly enslaved animals talked. Or to a kingdom where the true princess had been kidnapped by a wicked faun. I did this 24/7 and never told a soul about it until I was in high school.

But as a kid, I loved to play the princess sort of pretend with my girlfriends—and a lavish wardrobe of flower girl dresses supplied by my great-aunt who ran a bridal shop. And I loved playing—not doctor—but space explorer with my boyfriends. Although I didn’t start reading early, I did catch up very quickly to take a look at what I had missed. By fifth grade I was reading adult books; by sixth my mom was horrified to find me reading her copy of Valley of the Dolls. Now that doesn’t mean I was reading all grown-up books. I was unfailingly faithful to Nancy Drew and patterned my mystery stories on her adventures. And I read any book of any kind that had any sort of “urban magic” in it. I knew I was going to find real magic . . . right up until the moment when I realized that I was going to have to write about it instead.

As to my juvenilia, I am devastated to report that some of it has survived. Ye gods, does it suck!