Some good friends of mine are an American and Canadian who got married and live nearby with their kids. They invited me this last weekend to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving with them.
A new feast day! How awesome is that?
How many traditional feasts do we get to celebrate in America culture? Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Independence Day, weddings for friends…Any other big feasts? I would argue that feasts are needed more than every few months. I would also argue, that sometimes those traditional feast days become more stress or rush than a leisurely feast.
Don’t get me wrong. I love feasts! Making food and gathering for the purpose of hanging out for hours, eating homemade meals and just relaxing in each other’s company is something that I think we do too little–my heart chimes in “yes” to this thought.
Some nights, I’d rather pop a DVD in the player and bake a frozen pizza. It’s easier, it’s less intimidating, but it’s not a feast day. Canadian Thanksgiving woke up a little part of me that wants to feast more frequently and more joyously.
That reminds me of a favorite painting. Festivals, inspired by such works of art as Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s Spring, shouldn’t be lost. We should dance in the streets, wave flowers, sing songs and roast pigs with our friends and neighbors.
If someone invited you to dance with them in the street, would you do it?
I love my family. I was home schooled up through most of high school and I learned a lot about getting along with people and loving someone despite all of their flaws before I had dated anyone. I practiced a lot on my family. Family, when it’s strong, sticks with you through thick and thin and is a place of support
Characters, unless they are loners and I don’t tend to write about these much, should have some sort of family. They needn’t be blood-related, but they should be kindred. A place where the protagonist feels at home, a safe place to state his thoughts without worrying whether they are politically correct. Keep this in mind when you put your protagonist through the ordeals she will face.
As a side note, families that are blood related have an easy time harmonizing because their vocal chords are similarly constructed. This is my family: my mom, my brother, my sister and I singing at a benefit concert, We Are Priceless, to raise awareness about human trafficking that is happening right here in Washington.
When a hero or heroine sets out on The Quest, are we supposed to like them? I find myself wanting both things at once. I want my protagonist to be likable enough that if she loses her way in a dark forest or breaks her arm from a fall, we experience empathy. I want people to want her to win.
In my attempts to make a charismatic character, I sometimes find that I make them too “vanilla” because I’m worried that something “rough” about my character might force them to sacrifice the reader’s loyalty.
However, the more I write, the more I realize that my reader will be loyal to my character, no matter what the character does, just so long as that character is honest. Sometimes, it’s the painful honesty that strikes a chord within the reader (‘Oh yeah, I’ve thought about doing that, too’). A habit of stealing, or even of violence, which comes from a desperate upbringing is not repulsive. The thief or bully who has no signs of a history of an abuse is much less compelling. So when I study my villains and my heroes, I must study their families, the house where they were born, their first love, their beliefs about death, etc.
Suddenly, my characters begin to take on flesh and blood, and worries about empathy no longer exist. After all, what hero walked around in their stories and thought, “I sure hope whoever reads my life story will like me”?
I’ve found it hard to get away from the attraction that Greek myths have held for me. Ever since the morning I opened a thin black volume, containing easy-to-read paraphrases of Greek myths, I’ve been absolutely fascinated with the stories that always played with high stakes–stories that quite often (and usually more often than not) ended with a devastating tragedy.
The unfairness of life was captured here. The plight of a mortal at the mercy of a powerful and capricious god was here. The endless journey and sacrifice for the sake of love was here. The magic was here.
And so I begin. I open the tomes before me. Twenty lines spans twenty years, and I keep asking myself why Heracles killed his wife and was still a hero, why lovely Helen allowed Troy to be pillaged and gutted without flinching (or did she?), and why the Sirens allowed Odysseus’s ship to pass their island if they were such seasoned pros.
I use my pen and my voice to seek answers to these questions.