New England is in the midst of another large snow storm. I woke up to about a foot of snow on the ground, snow on the branches of the bare trees, and snow all the way up to our front door. Mgo had to shovel himself out of the house to begin shoveling the driveway to prevent it from icing up before we get the second wave of snow this afternoon. Yes, it’s a beautiful thing. To not have to leave the house. To stay inside and do all the reading you want, play video games, drink hot chocolate. But as I watch the snow fall, I can’t help but feel a little bit claustrophobic. It keeps coming down and after a whole day of it, I wonder if it will ever stop. I feel stuck in this house. The house seems smaller, having less air to breathe. Cabin fever…

In the story I am presently working on, I have intentionally placed my characters in a claustrophobic situation. The entire story takes place at a funeral home. The main character only goes out to bury her grandmother. It sounds a bit eerie, and it is so. There is some dark humor in there that comes with putting a young person in such tight quarters with people who deal with death every day. Who have made it a business. If you have not yet read “The Loved One” by Evelyn Waugh, and if you are brave, read it. Waugh is very clever with the dark humor he imposes on the reader regarding the business aspect of funeral homes. I increase tension in this story by bringing my character back home to Los Angeles after a fairly long absence. She leaves home at a young age to escape from her dysfunctional family (her father left her and her mother at a young age). She is not on good terms with her mother. Also upon her return, she finds out that her cousin is engaged. A lot has changed, and she is angry that they have changed without her. That things are not as she left them. I have combined all of this tension with the fact that she has to confront her past in the small, eerie confines of a funeral home.

This is character claustrophobia at its best. As I work on my thesis, I strive to put my characters in these types of situations. To push them, pull them, nudge them, push all their buttons to see what they will do in their most frustrated, excited, overwhelmed moments.

Sorry, Josephine. You’re really in for it, now.

I don’t read in order to escape from reality. I read because I believe that stories can teach us about who we are and why we do the things that we do. I believe that stories bring to light the things that we hide and often forget. They are the experiences of life that we keep stuffed at the back of our closets, in a box in the garage, or buried in our grandparent’s backyard. They are experiences and emotions that we hide in our subconscious, that appear in our dreams, and that we forget in the morning. I believe that these hidden things should emerge in fiction. Stories should force us to dig up whatever we are concealing, whatever we have forgotten. In the private confines of our minds, stories should bring us back to the pieces of humanity that are stowed away. With my own writing, I hope to bring my readers back to the experiences that molded them into who they are, and that made them most aware of life.

My goal as a writer is to cause my reader to gain a better understanding of life and themselves. This year, I wrote a story about a woman’s daily struggle with intense physical pain caused by arthritis, and the emotional wounds that it inflicted upon her marriage. The reader follows Claire on the day that she tries to change what her and her husband’s life has become because of her illness. She pushes her body way beyond its limits. In the evening, when she tries to make love to her husband, she is not physically able to go through with it. So, while at the beginning of the story, she is determined to make Rick remember what it was like before the arthritis hit, in the end, she realizes that this is simply impossible. With the last scene of the story, I attempted to break the reader’s heart. Her feelings of giving up on herself, and on the stability her relationship with Rick come out at the end. She abandons all hope. With this, I strive to bring to the reader’s attention the feeling of hopelessness that we often push away and ignore to keep ourselves afloat. I do this to remind them that this kind of deep despair exists. To remind them that it’s what makes life real and tangible.

Stories should be reminders of what we forget about humanity in the midst of the business of life. I want my stories to cause readers to remember their childhood, the things they loved about family gatherings, the things they hated about their high school, what they felt when their grandfather passed away, what they said to their mothers in their angriest moment. We often forget to stop and think about what life does, and what we do in the heart of it, and this must be reflected in fiction. So whether we’re young, or old, or somewhere in between, when we come to literature, let us learn something.

Or else, let us not read it at all.

One of the weaknesses I have as a writer is that my characters tend to be passive. A lot of times, my protagonist will avoid answering a question, or something will happen and get in the way of his/her chance to respond. My professors are often annoyed with this. During workshops, I’m often asked by both professors and students why my characters are so passive. Why they can’t just speak up, answer difficult questions, get angry at others, etc. So, lately, as I’m writing, I’ve been trying to force my characters to be more assertive. I don’t want them to be afraid of standing up for themselves and speaking up, defending themselves. One of my professors told me that through the years, she has learned that some writers create passive characters because they are passive in their own lives. This really hit me square in the eyes. She told me this in her office, during a private meeting, and I literally laughed allowed. Even at that moment I was ready to change the subject, and I realized that even then I was automatically going to “pass over” her comment and move on. But I decided to pause, let myself digest what she had just told me, and respond to it. I told her that she was so right! I am really bad with confrontation.

This past week, I was scheduled to undergo an endoscopy. I was nervous about it for a whole week. So nervous that if I stopped to think about it, I would literally have an anxiety attack. Trouble breathing. Sweating. Heart racing. Room spinning. You get the picture. So you can only imagine how I was feeling on the day of the procedure. My poor husband had to sit next to a very unhappy woman in the waiting room. I didn’t want to talk about it. I snapped at him. I didn’t want to hear it when he tried to console me. Oh, let me tell you, I was a mess.

When I was finally called in, I regretfully changed into the hospital gown and lay on the bed. I waited for the nurse and greeted her with a scowl. I was so nervous that I had trouble answering simple questions and following simple directions.
When the nurse was putting my I.V. in, she said, “Are you Armenian?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I married an Armenian,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yup. And I had two Armenian kids.”
“That’s cool,” I said, grimacing as she poked me with a needle for the third time.
“Yeah, and then I divorced my Armenian husband.”
I don’t know why she felt the need to tell me that story as she had trouble finding my vein. I was beginning to think she was preparing my arm to play “Connect the Dots” on my arm during the procedure.

Anyway, I really wanted the nurses to know how terrified I was. I was not looking forward to having a long tube stuck down my throat into my stomach. I wasn’t thrilled about the doctor clipping different parts of my stomach for biopsies either. I was literally shaking in the bed. The grumpy divorcee couldn’t get the I.V. in and didn’t pay much attention to my complaints. So, when another nurse came in to stick the needle into my hand, I tried again. I spoke up. I told her how nervous I was, and she said that I would be fine. When the same nurse came back and wheeled me into the procedure room, I could hear the bed shaking.

The nurse came to me and told me that I needed to relax.
“I am absolutely terrified,” I said.
“Yes, I can both see and hear that,” she said. “I’m going to give you something to get you started, to calm you down.”
She gave me some Versed and narcotics, and I even told her I was afraid of what the sedatives would feel like. I kept telling her that I was very scared.
Finally, she held my hand tightly, and came down close to my face with a smile.
“Honey, I will give you as much medicine as I can without being illegal.”

As soon as she said this, the room started spinning, they turned me on my left side, and then I woke up in the recovery room. Mgo told me that I kept asking him the same questions over and over again, going in and out of consciousness. Supposedly the doctor came in and talked to me about how the procedure went, etc. The only thing I remember is seeing a man in a green outfit smile at me. I don’t recall any of what he told me.

LONG story short… I made a conscious choice to be assertive that day. I wanted to see what would happen. Yes, in the midst of my intense fear and anxiety, I was testing myself. I was testing the world around me. And it sure made a difference. If I hadn’t told them how afraid I was, I don’t know if they would’ve given me enough sedatives for me to actually fall asleep. I might’ve had a really bad experience. I spoke up, and it was such a breeze, I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

I had the best sleep of my life.

And if I hadn’t spoken up, if I hadn’t pushed passed my usual passivity, I don’t know if I would’ve had this story to tell.

Because I am working on my thesis, my thoughts are constantly consumed by the art of writing. Working with Thomas Cobb has been more than rewarding. It is so nice to work with a writer who has the same views about writing as I do. And these “views” have developed with each of our meetings to talk about my work. I have been pondering about two ways of composing a story or a novel. One, you think about what the story will be about, decide on an ending, map it all out, and then write. Two, you just start writing, not knowing the ending, or what the story will be about, for that matter. I mean, I think most writers feel like they need to map everything out before they actually begin writing. My stories are usually prompted by an image, then I place a person in that image, and then I let my fingers go free on my keyboard. Of course, a mere image doesn’t comprise a story. There must be conflict. There must be growth or a change of heart for the protagonist.

One of my recent stories took me quite a while to write. It took me about two and a half months to take it where I wanted it to go, where I knew it had to go. But I will never forget the day that I wrote the paragraph that morphed into this story. It was on May 28th, 2010. On my birthday, actually. My husband took me to the beach, and I lay on my towel, the sun seeping through my skin, sand in my eyelashes, between my teeth… I turned over onto my stomach and pulled out my journal and a pen. Mgo was dosing on the beach chair behind me, and it wasn’t really beach season yet, so it was strangely and enjoyably quiet. There was an image bursting in my mind, and on those occasions, I smile, because I know it will probably turn into something good. It felt like a good one, my fingers fumbling for an empty page, pen cap quickly tossed aside into the sand, hoping that what is bumping around in my head will make it to the page in time to capture it. Here is what I wrote down:

“Claire sat in the sun and pretended she was just like everyone else. Her eyes shut, she observed the tiny black specks in the midst of the red the sun made through her lids. The specks blinked and floated like waves. And though she tried to imagine that she heard the sound of the ocean, her lids eventually lifted, and instead of the sea, she was greeted by her silent vegetable garden. The beach chair felt stiff, pushing against her sore back, but the warmth of the sun contended her.”

Now, when I read through this, I wasn’t entire surprised. I had spent most of May on a beach chair, in our side yard, reading under the sun. I did this because the warmth of the sun became medicinal for my muscle aches caused by my Fibromyalgia. It was very soothing. Granted, this is not a very well written paragraph. For one thing, she tries to imagine that she hears the ocean, but she is greeted by a SILENT garden. Come on, Tam. (head on desk) But when I got home, I went ahead and typed it in a document on my laptop, and now, months later, it is one of the best pieces I have ever written. It is about a woman who battles against her own body–the pain of the arthritis is bad, every single day. This illness damages her relationship with her husband. Though he is very sympathetic and helpful, it sucks the life out of Claire, and therefore her marriage.

I fell in love with Claire. Not only because she carried a piece of me, but because she strung me along for months, and for the first time, I felt a very deep connection with a character that I had created! After a while, I just sat back and watched. I put her in different situations, and a lot of the time was surprised at the things that she did and said. I heard her and Rick arguing, talking over dinner. I heard Claire’s thoughts. It’s like she just needed someone to tell her story. And that’s where I came in.

All of this to say that I choose the second way of writing. I don’t plan everything out before I start. For one thing, what’s the fun in that? It doesn’t feel like creative work. It feels like homework. Like a paper that you leave to write until the last minute, and then suffer through it. Yes, most of my writing happens in my mind, throughout the day, even if I’m not at my computer. But I don’t take hours and hours to contemplate and outline the plot of my stories. What a waste of life?

I choose to enjoy doing it.

And when inspiration hits, I will hold the image in my mind until I find something to write with, and something to write on.

This will be my third New England winter. I’ve been told my Rhode Island residents that no matter how long you’ve lived here, the cold is always shocking. I told my chiropractor’s receptionist that I really don’t do well with my pain in the winter. She said, “Honey, none of us do well in the winter!” I do love the snow when I’m not driving in it. I love the sound of the crackling fire in our fireplace. I love cancelled classes and even church services. But what I love most about the winter, is that the cold air forces me to stay inside. My desk faces a window, and is right next to the door that leads out to the driveway. In the summer, the warm breeze sifted through the screen in front of me and beckoned me to go outside. At first, my husband wondered why our storm door kept opening and closing, but soon, he got used to seeing me walk up and down our driveway, barefoot, humming, deep breathing. After a while, I gave in completely, and spent most of my afternoons out in the side yard, sitting on a stiff beach chair working my way through my graduate directed reading list, my toes wiggling in the warm grass, happy to be in the sun. Now, no more sun, no more bare feet. Now, clouds and socks. And best of all, a great reason to stay indoors and force my fingers to type. I do believe my characters are glad to have me back, giving them attention, watching them and listening to them.

Although it’s cold outside, today, my characters are at the pool, the cement burning their feet, rushing to get in the water. The boys are making fun of the young girl who is battling with the transition into womanhood, self conscious yet excited about her future of marriage and having babies. She will soon find out that being a woman is not easy. That sometimes, your body fails you. Sometimes, being a woman isn’t a ticket to a happy marriage and the opportunity to have children. Tough to write, but hopefully will be a good read.

Alright, Jane. I’m right here. Take the towel off. Get in the water.

I have writer’s block. So I come to my blog to vent, and push myself out of this haze, if possible. My characters aren’t moving today. They’re waiting for me to do the work for them. That’s why I know I need to stop and let them be. I’ll give them a few hours to hash it out among themselves. I’ll pick up where they leave off.

We are approaching the end of October, and I try not to think about the fact that I only have a few more months to carry my thesis to completion. What’s hard about a creative thesis is that you have to force your mind to be motivated on days that there is just no creative output. I have just written the first five pages of a new story, and I stopped typing mid conversation. I left my characters in the kitchen, sitting at the glass-top table, eating their tuna melts, and sipping their iced tea. They’re waiting for me, but I think I’ll just let them finish eating…

I think it’s a good time as ever to get up off my chair and forget that I’m a writer for a while…I could clean, take a walk in the rain, read…

I think I’ll stick to reading…It’s my fuel.

I created this blog months ago, yet I never mustered the courage to write my first post. It’s interesting, isn’t it? I created a blog about my writing life, and I couldn’t even bring myself to write. It’s time to stop procrastinating, and fearing, and cleaning and eating…and write.

It is Monday, and already I’m feeling the weight of the week on my shoulders. Mondays are never really pleasant, except for the fact that it precedes Tuesday, which happens to be the day of the week that my favorite television show airs. Yes, I’m a LOST fan. I’ll save my rants about my show for another time. Maybe a time when I’m struggling with writer’s block, which, let me tell you, HAPPENS. I’ve learned to roll with it. Sometimes I fight it. Other times times I turn my computer off and read, go for a walk, make some coffee, and forget that I am a writer.

I am preparing to write my Thesis. Fortunately, I’m working with a great writer, whose first novel recently became a motion picture starring Jeff Bridges. Aside from the fact that I like working with a writer who is actually known for his work, we’re very much on the same page when it comes to writing. You see, when I write, I am not fully acquainted with my characters. I don’t map out my stories. I simply begin a the beginning. I write a sentence, create a character, and then watch what they do. Most of the time I simply watch them make mistakes, become ill, fall in love, yell at their mothers, and learn something about themselves and about the world. They teach me something about myself and the world. It’s pretty lovely, actually. These people stay with me for years, and that is my joy.

My only hope is that I will only call myself a writer, and let others do so, if I do it well. What is the point of making writing my profession if I’m not good at it. Of course, a line always has to be drawn. When I’m sitting in my workshops, and someone tells me that they just feel like the narrator isn’t sympathetic enough, or that the end of the story just didn’t do it for them, or that Jill should’ve been wearing a pink dress instead of yellow, I have to look down and make a note to myself: These are my words. These are my characters. You don’t have to change it just because Bobby doesn’t like it when you use the word “horrendous” too many times on the first page.

Well, I must be off. I’ll leave you with this:

–When I was young enough to believe that life would never change, I played in Grandma’s garden. It burst with the smell of fresh, green grass and happy leaves swaying to the hum of the morning newborn flies. Four stone steps down, my hand in hers, we entered her domain. There was something about the harmony of nature that made my grandmother come alive. Her roses and daisies waved in the breeze as she floated by in her long pink nightgown. She touched them all, her fingers gently caressing petals and leaves, and weeding with bare hands. Her fingernails collected the brown earth that welcomed her care. I favored the snapdragons that stood tall with pursed lips. She guided my fingers, and together we squeezed each one. They opened their mouths and I giggled. They spoke, but I didn’t hear. Grandma was in constant commune with the garden.–