A Strange Love Triangle

By Ellen Bowers Davenport

                John, Marsh, and Winnie worked in a small office and often shared their breaks and lunches with each other. They were all good friends and often the three of them would go out after work to enjoy an evening together. 

        “Abby, I’ve known Marsh and John for over two years, and neither of them has ever asked me out alone. Until now. Marsh asked me out to dinner this weekend. Just the two of us. I know I’ll have a good time, but I have been trying to get John to notice me. What should I do?”

        “Am I that ugly?” she asked, looking in the mirror.

        “No Winnie, you are a beautiful person, inside and out. Why don’t you go to dinner with Marsh, and then, next week, keep talking about how much fun you had. Maybe that will make John take notice,” Abby suggested. 

        “Yes, it should make him jealous,” Winnie said, staring into a mirror and patting her hair. 

        Saturday night Winnie and Marsh went to a trendy bar and had a wonderful time. The music and food were excellent, and the atmosphere was very romantic. When Winnie made a trip to the ladies' room, she noticed John, sitting alone, in a dark corner booth. Smiling to herself, when she returned to her table, she leaned over and kissed Marsh, and touching his cheek, told him how much she was enjoying their time together.

        When Monday rolled around, Winnie went into work with a smile on her face. She walked by John’s desk and cheerfully asked if he had had a good weekend.

        “Fine,” he snarled, turning away from her.

        Midmorning coffee break was always a welcome interlude in their busy office, and the three friends usually met up in the lounge. Winnie had grabbed a doughnut and a coffee and was heading for an empty table when John asked if he could join her.

        Inwardly smiling, she answered, “Sure.”

        John sat and stirred his coffee absently, although Winnie knew he took it black. “Winnie, I saw you Saturday night out with Marsh. You looked like you were enjoying yourselves.”

        “Oh,” she replied, “did you wish it were you I was out with?”

        “No, actually, I wished I was out with Marsh.”  

~~~~~~~

       NOTE: Ellen’s story is from the September Writing Exercise. The challenge was to write a story inspired by a common trope and subvert it. The Love Triangle is a familiar and very common trope with predictable, often uninteresting, conflicts. Ellen was able to subvert it, creating a surprising and interesting ending to her story. –Charles

 Ellen’s book is a record of the 100 years of reunions of the descendants 

of Job Bowers and Elizabeth Ballenger Bowers. The record spans a century of changes,

 in society, the world, and families and lists the 

names of attendees each year.

      

Ellen's  book.is available  CLICK Here

 I AM LUCKY

By Pam Baker

        The evening news is depressing.  There is so much tragedy in the world and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it, so although I know it is “wrong”, I choose not to watch the news.  But since my husband watches it daily, I can hear it from any room in the house; therefore, I do know what is going on whether I want to or not.  I hear about the wildfire in the paradise of Hawaii, destroying countless acres of beauty and, even worse, many people’s lives and homes along with all their possessions.   

 

        I hear about fires on America’s west coast, raging forest fires, devouring beautiful National Parks, gorgeous mountainsides, and again, the homes and possessions of the unfortunate people who happen to live in the fire’s path.  Hurricanes bombard our coastlines, wreaking havoc and destruction wherever they touch.  They interview the people who have lost everything and most are in tears or in shock. 

         I look around at my beautiful home, decorated with both costly items and monetarily worthless items that are very precious to me.  My home is safe today and I feel lucky.

        One of my sisters recently retired, finally able to spend her days however she wished, something all working people look forward to.  She was finally able to spend her days with her husband of 41 years instead of kissing him good bye every morning not seeing him for about 10 hours.  They could go boating, take walks through their woods, go down to the river and observe the eagles who had nested there.  They could stay up late eating popcorn and watching movies because no alarm clock was going to demand they get out of bed the next day at an early hour.  They were happy.  Then one day he went to the doctor because of shoulder pain and heard the word we all dread – cancer.  Six weeks later, he was gone and my sister’s life is now devoid of joy.  As she puts it, the color had faded from her life.

        Another sister suffered a similar misfortune.  She and her husband worked hard to provide a good home and good education to their three children.  After years of struggle and hard work, the children had all graduated from college and gone successfully into the world, and their beautiful home was paid for.  Now they could relax a bit and just enjoy each other and a less complicated life.  Far before retirement age, this dream was destroyed.   One beautiful summer morning after kissing my sister good bye, her husband headed off to a job he loved and never made it there, his life taken in a tragic biking accident.  My sister now fills her days with work, church, and her new obsession with physical fitness.  But each night she crawls into her king-sized bed alone.

        Another sister of mine struggled her whole adult life, raising her three children alone and she did a fantastic job.  My children grew up way too fast, but it seemed like hers were young forever.  But suddenly one day they were adults, married and out on their own.  My sister breathed a sigh of relief, free at last to focus on her wants and desires instead of her children’s.  She was blessed with grandchildren and could not have been any happier.  And then the Sheriff came to the door one night.  His conversation began with “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but…”  With this, her world collapsed.  Her only son had been struck and killed by a hit and run driver.  He was buried on his 24^th birthday. 

        I look around at my life.  My husband is sitting right here this evening smiling at me.  My three sons are healthy and happy, all with good families, good jobs, and good friends.  I feel lucky.

        My only brother is two years older than me.  Although we live in different states 500 miles apart, we are still close.  I love my brother. He recently went to the doctor because of balance issues and was diagnosed with Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus.  This disease also causes a myriad of other problems, dementia being one, and it is incurable.  The only treatment option is an operation installing a pump and shunt into the brain and draining off the excess fluid through a tube routed through the body from the brain to the abdomen.  Caught early, it can usually correct the balance issue, but the other issues may or may not improve.  Luckily, it WAS caught early and the operation seems to have been a success so far.  My brother loves nothing more than to travel and take countless photographs of the beauty in our world.  He spent his whole life working, looking forward to retirement when he could travel wherever and whenever he chose.  Hopefully this may still be possible with limitations, but there is no guarantee.    

        People my age usually begin to have health problems, but so far, I am perfectly healthy.  I feel lucky.

        We all value our homes and possessions.  We value our loved ones, especially our spouses and children.  And although we usually don’t appreciate it until it is gone, we value our good health.  But do we truly appreciate any or all of these on a daily basis?

        My point to all of this?  We all get up every morning and bumble through our days, not appreciating what we have, complaining about trivial things, being bored, being depressed, when we have no reason to be.  No one’s life is perfect, we all have our problems.  But we all need to wake up and appreciate what we DO have.  We should appreciate our health.  We should appreciate every single thing we have – no matter how large or small.  And most of all, we should appreciate the fact that our loved ones are still with us.  At any given moment, it could all disappear. 

        I am lucky and I know it.  I want all of you to realize that no matter how many problems you have, that you are lucky, too.

      Pam's poems and stories are published in several of the Guild’s anthologies. The Adventures of Petey is her first children's book. She is currently working on the next book which will continue Petey's happy life.

 Available  Here CLICK HERE or Amazon.com

 

The Return

By Sharon Wynns

Ahh, serenity. It surrounded me as I hiked down the trail between two huge old beech trees when a sudden chill ran over my skin. I turned to look behind me. No one was there, but my body gave an involuntary shiver. I thought I had heard someone say my name, so softly I almost missed it. I shook my head. It must have been the wind. Turning back around, I stepped out from the shade of the beech trees. The path led through a sunlit meadow filled with lavender-blue asters. My eye was caught by a kaleidoscope of tiny yellow butterflies as they bobbed and danced from flower to flower. I stopped to enjoy the scene. Although it was fall, the sun still felt hot on my bare skin and the heated air rose up to envelop me.

Seeking this beauty, allowing it to calm and soothe my soul, had been my habit for two decades.

I was happy to be back on these trails—this being my first time since the accident. I had always felt welcome here and was surprised that I reacted to the sound of my name like that—perhaps because it had never happened before. A short huff of a laugh escaped me. I’ve always been told I have a not too subtle imagination. I passed back into the woods.

There it was again. I spun around, checking all about me. Nobody. This is getting a little spooky. It was another half mile back to the car. Fighting a sudden urge to break out into a run, I did pick up my pace, casting my eyes right and left. The trees were wide-spaced, and I had a clear view of the surrounding woods. It was brightly mottled with sunlight. The undergrowth was no higher than mid-calf, still lush but sparsely growing. I passed a sweetgum, Sharon. I passed another Beech tree. Sharon. My Goddess! It sounded like it was coming directly from the tree. I walked all around it, looked up into the large branches some ten feet above my head and saw no one—heard nothing more. This can’t be real.

“Whoever is doing this, come out. It’s not funny.”

No one responded. The woods were quiet. Another chill ran up my back. I could feel myself wanting to cry. Stay calm, I admonished myself. It’s just your imagination. I took another look around and then moved forward, one careful step at a time. I was approaching a group of trees that lined either side of the trail. I slowed even more. I passed the first tree, then two more. I kept going. Then a whole chorus of voices whispered my name. They didn’t stop until I ran past the last one in the group. Some ten feet away, I braked and turned around. “What! What do you want?” Whoa, crazy. Did I really think I’d get an answer? Silence.

Wrapping my arms around me, I once more turned in a slow circle. I had always considered myself to be open to the mystical, and yet... this was a bit out of my realm of experience. After my accident, I had spent a month in rehab. Maybe it was being around all those medical personnel. Their reality was definitely more based on the physical. Had I somehow become sealed off from the metaphysical? But... I was actually hearing these voices!

Taking a deep breath, I expelled it with a strong huff. I took a step forward, then another, until I was standing beside an old oak tree.

 “Sharon,” it said softly, its voice light... and kind, “Welcome back.”

Sharon is one of the original members of the Writers Guild at Bowers House. Her writings can range from whimsical to philosophical and are always entertaining and inspiring. Please leave a comment.

Her latest novel:

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 The Melody of Words

Introducing Method Writing

           A few months ago, the Writers Guild had a session on story structure that used music to explain and illustrate the use of beats in structuring a story. At that session, we said the story is music: a melody with a cadence where a ballerina pirouettes on the scene and goes through a series of choreographed steps (BEATS) and at each step, presents a well-disciplined form that holds our attention throughout the song. I don’t know much about music, but I think that was a pretty good analogy. It certainly helped me better understand the beat structure of a story. So let’s exploit that idea as we begin our study method writing.  

In The Beginning

           A melody might begin with just a single note. The sound of a drop of water falling into a pool. Or maybe just a sound of two objects clinking together: an accident. Somehow, the sound in the artist’s ear resonates with a place in his memory and he feels something. He doesn’t know if it’s good or bad, but he’s curious, and searches for a mate to that single note. A natural pair is coaxed into being, perhaps by the feeling, curiosity, or even through trial and error: pecking the keys of a piano. The third note is added, then another, and another, and a melody begins to play in his head…

         The melody, even in its infancy, mirrors the unique personal traits of the artist who composed it, including his temperament, perspective, and emotions. Regardless of the art medium, the creative process yields a similar outcome. For example, in writing, the authentic voice of the writer is like the melody of a song. 

 Writing About It

            The statement that the authentic voice of the writer is like the melody of a song captures the essence of what it means to write with honesty and integrity. Just as a melody is the heart and soul of a song, the authentic voice of the writer is at the core of his work, the thing that makes it unique and compelling.

           Authenticity is about being true to oneself and expressing one’s thoughts and feelings in a genuine and sincere way. This can be difficult, especially in a world that often values conformity and uniformity over individuality and creativity. Yet, it is precisely this individuality and creativity that gives writing its power and resonance. When a writer is able to tap into their authentic voice, they are able to connect with readers on a deep and meaningful level, transcending the boundaries of language, culture, and time.

 Completing the Song

            The simple melody is not a complete song. The artist selects and applies a key that determines the specific pitches, chords, and cadence to add intensity and depth, giving the song its unique tonal characteristics.

           The writer adds structure and style suitable for the genre shaping the prose with diction, verbals, adjectives, and any number of literary devices.

           There’s a remarkable similarity in the genius of creativity and despite different techniques for each craft, the work of each artisan, whether it is a symphony or a novel, always carries their authentic voice.

           Finding one’s authentic voice is not always easy. It requires a willingness to be vulnerable, to take risks, and to be open to criticism and feedback. But the rewards are great: not just for the writer, but for readers as well.

            In the end, the authentic voice of the writer is not just like the melody of a song; it is the illuminating spirit of prose and poem. It is the thing that makes writing come alive, that gives it meaning and purpose, and connects the writer to the reader in ways that are both profound and enduring.

           Method Writing is an approach to writing that emphasizes bringing realistic and emotional authenticity to the scenes portrayed in the prose. It requires writers to delve deep into the psyche of their characters, drawing upon personal experiences and emotions to bring forth truth and authenticity. Finding one’s authentic voice is the first step in the process.

 “Nothing is impossible…  until you quit.”     

PLEASE NOTE: This blog was created as a result of a session held by the Writers Guild at Bowers House, where the topic of discussion was blogs. This is the fourth post in the blog, it includes a story written by one of our members for a writing exercise associated with the theme of a Guild meeting. Moving forward, we plan to feature stories by members regularly in future posts. –Enjoy.

 

NO CLUE

BY LINDA DYE

        Jake let the car bump the curb, bringing it to a jolting halt. Jauntily he swung the door wide, exiting the car in his rumpled khaki shorts, red shirt and UGA cap. His unconcerned swagger propelled him along, his large belly leading the way, toothpick drooping from the corner of his sagging mouth.

        “Mama, I sure hope this marriage counselor can talk some sense into you. Of course, I guess everything will be my fault, her being a woman and all.”  Swinging his arms in a carefree football stadium style strut, Jake continued in the direction of the entrance.

        By this time, Sandy was trailing three steps behind, clutching her handbag to her chest. Her eyes dreamily focused on the beautiful, peaceful lake in the distance, her mind absorbed in thoughts known to her alone. Sandy was oblivious to Jake’s idle chatter and did not respond.

        A smiling Dr. Merritt welcomed Jake and Sandy into her office, seating them in comfortable upholstered chairs positioned to the front of her desk. After a brief shuffling of papers and the customary menial conversation, Dr. Merritt inquired as to which party wished to speak first.

        Without hesitation, Jake, in his sprawled position in the plush chair, announced with a gap tooth grin and a slap of his thighs, “Doc, I’m here to get some help for Mama. I’ll explain what’s going on.”  With a conspiratorial narrowing of his eyes and a hushed tone, he proceeded. “She’s just not herself lately. Why, last Sunday, she left the bananas out of the banana pudding and later in the week she told me, ‘If you wanted clean underwear, you had better learn to use the washing machine’.” A drawn, anxious look creased his face as he shook his head and wrung his hands. “Doc, do whatever it takes to help Mama. Money is no consideration.”

        After a lengthy interval of pen to paper, with an encouraging smile Doctor Merritt turned to Sandy who was sitting erect on the edge of her chair, eyes glaring at Jake, hands fisted in her lap, “Sandy, I would be interested in hearing from you now.”

        There was an edge, what you might call a quaver, in her voice as she began to speak. “Let me say to begin with, my name is Sandy, not Mama,” as she pounded the cushioned arms of the expensive chair with both fists. “I have made banana pudding every Sunday for the past forty years and I have no intentions of ever making another one.” An ugly sneer marred her attractive face and a pointed finger waved in Jake’s direction, stirring the air close to his face, causing him to shrink in fear of being struck. 

        “I have begged and pleaded for attention; a play, the symphony or just a dinner date with dress clothes and maybe a glass of wine, but no, that was too much to ask, according to Jake. I have prepared meals without so much as a thank you from him. I listened to him suck his teeth, slurp his food and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, only to have him ask what I was fixing for the next meal before he even left the table. People at church think I am widowed because I am always alone.”

        Slack jawed and squirming, Jake said, “N-n-now Mama, we can work this out. Y-Y-You know I come to church on Easter and Christmas. Tell Doc Merritt about that.”

        Dr. Merritt nervously stacked and unstacked papers, her eyes flitting from Jake to Sandy. “When may I set up another appointment? I can see this is a complicated situation requiring some extensive counseling.”

        With poise and grace, Sandy stood, shoulders back, head held high, a smile on her face and announced, “There will be no need for another appointment. Jake, I have found someone else to share the remainder of my life; someone who knows my name and loves me for who I am, and does not expect me to cook a damn banana pudding every Sunday. I will not be home tonight or any night in the future.”

         Jake’s pleading, conciliatory outstretched hands danced in the air. “N-n-now wait, Mama. W-w-what has come over you? I-I-It won’t hurt a thing if we lay off the banana pudding for a few weeks. Doc, see what I mean?”

        Heels clicked across the wood floor and the door slammed with a conclusive jar as Sandy exited, leaving Jake and Dr. Merritt wide eyed and opened mouthed.

 

Linda Dye is a seasoned member of the Writers Guild at Bowers House. She is a lifelong resident of Elberton, Georgia and published her first book in November 2020: “Of Our Times” subtitled: A melding of memories and imaginings. It’s a wonderful collection of forty-seven fun-to-read s that evoke a delightful array of smiles, laughter, and nostalgia.   You can purchase a copy of her book from Amazon, Barns & Noble, or at this link: ClickHere

 Grandpa Herzig

          In my neck o’ the woods in Independence County, Arkansas, back in the day, there lived an old gentleman we called Grandpa Herzig. He was not really anyone’s grandpa; he was just an old man who lived in that part of the country for so long and knew so many people and so many people knew him that everyone just called him Grandpa Herzig, a title he bore with a pride as mighty as the Ozark hills. No one knew more about anything than Grandpa Herzig. He was a storyteller and freely offered advice on any subject, often without you even asking.

          

          Once, a lovesick young man came to him for advice. He explained he was madly in love with Molly Bee, who he believed would never give him a second glance. He wanted to ask her to the dance on Friday night. But he couldn’t think of the proper words to say and was almost certain she would reject him.

          Grandpa Herzig said, “First let me regale you with a yarn, my son,” he spoke, his voice tinged with a touch of antiquity, “a tale of misfortune befalling a man on a lonesome path as nightfall settled its dusky veil upon the land.”

         Old Grandpa Herzig, his face lined with wisdom and experience, began his tale. “Once upon a time, the protagonist of our narrative emerged—a certain Jeffrey Pierce, a man of refined disposition and scholarship, though his occupation proved to be a thorn in his side. A peddler of agricultural wares, he lacked the innate knowledge and toil of a true farmer. 

          As the week drew to a close, bearing little success, young Pierce set forth upon his journey homeward. Alas, fate’s cruel hand reached out to him, and at the very moment when the sun bid its farewell to the horizon, a punctured tire beset him. Weary and vexed, he steered his vehicle aside, and, with great exertion, unloaded the spare wheel and, extracted a lug wrench from the depths of his trunk. Yet, to his profound dismay, a vital instrument was absent—no jack to raise his carriage. As twilight deepened into darkness, a shroud of solitude enveloped him, with no respite in sight, no benevolent passerby to hail, for the road lay desolate and void of traffic.”

          He set forth upon his journey, traversing the winding road with resolute steps. Before long, a flickering glow caught his attention in the distance, resembling a radiant beacon stationed at least two leagues away. As he trudged wearily along the path, his ruminations centered on the inhabitants of that abode, for he pondered who among them might provide relief in his hour of need. Would they possess a jack, perchance? Yet, would their benevolence extend to aiding a stranger? And if assistance were granted, what remuneration would they exact? Perchance, the thought fluttered, the fee might be tolerable, but with naught but solitude surrounding him, the odds inclined toward an exorbitant demand beyond his modest means. 

          The farther he ventured, the more his thoughts dwelled upon the prospective cost. At length, he summoned the courage to rap upon the door, and as the farmer emerged, their gazes locked in a confrontation fraught with ire, he tersely declared, “I have no desire to employ your jack, sir!” Swiftly pivoting on his heel, he retraced his steps toward his carriage, leaving the perplexed farmer in his wake.  

          “What do you think of that yarn, my boy?”

          “…And now, what was the nature of your quandary?”

 Unleashing Creativity

         Anyone can be creative. The desire to create something, whether a flower garden or poetry, is  a nearly universal compulsion. Creativity is not just for artists.

Painted Rocks Rock

         The creativity of my friend Sharon never stops. Even when relatives come for a visit, creativity is on the agenda. Last year, when her sister and her niece came for a visit, she had everything set up for painting rocks and had invited a couple of local friends to join in. 

      These rocks are a way for kids and adults to express themselves creatively and spark meaningful conversation. Once you create one, the idea is to leave it somewhere for another person to find and enjoy. Often they contain a simple message to brighten someone's entire day.

Soda Cans Can Rock Too

         In a world where recycling has become an integral part of our daily lives, Sharon found a unique way to transform recycling into an entertaining creative activity. When her sister, niece, and brother-in-law arrived for a visit last weekend, Sharon had everything ready to take them on a Soda Can Art adventure.

The Origins of Soda Can Art

         Soda can art can be traced back to the early 1960s when artists began experimenting with unconventional materials. The growing awareness of environmental issues and the need for recycling inspired artists to repurpose everyday objects. The humble soda can, with its vibrant colors and malleable structure, presented itself as an ideal medium for creative expression.

Techniques and Tools

         Creating art from soda cans requires a combination of artistic skill, patience, and resourcefulness. Artists start by collecting empty soda cans, which are then carefully washed and cut into sheets, flattened, and manipulated using various tools such as scissors, craft knives, and metalworking tools. These transformed aluminum sheets serve as the canvas for the artists' imagination.

         Sharon’s adventure took place in her flower garden where getting caught up on family news while creating environmentally friendly aluminum flowers were the prime objectives. After observing the activities briefly, Scott, Sharon’s brother-in-law, and I retired to a nearby shade tree and through casual conversation discussed and offered solutions to the world’s problems.

 

          Sharon’s Soda Can Adventure is reminiscent of the old quilting bee where women shared quilt-making out of necessity and pleasure. These later evolved into quilting parties were only a small part of time is spent sharing quilt-making activities.

 Environmental Consciousness

         Beyond the aesthetic appeal, soda can art carries a powerful message about sustainability and environmental consciousness. By repurposing discarded cans, artists bring attention to the importance of recycling and reducing waste.

         Soda can art exemplifies the beauty that can be found in unexpected places. It showcases the limitless creativity of artists who transform discarded materials into remarkable works of art, highlighting the importance of recycling and sustainability. As this unique art form continues to evolve, it will undoubtedly inspire more individuals to see the artistic potential in everyday objects. So, next time you finish your soda, think twice before throwing away the can – it could be the starting point for an extraordinary creation in the hands of a soda can artist.

 

 

 Writers Workshop Weekend Retreat

May 26–29, 2023

     We began the first session on Saturday morning with everyone describing their writing experience and current activities.

     Since the workshop was about character development and might involve some introspection, each participant shared a point of vulnerability, not family secrets, but something they would not put on a job application or resumé.

The Story Portrait

     Following the introductions, we began a discussion of the story portrait. This is a drawing inspired by Mark Twain’s advice to writers that says “Put your character up a tree and throw rocks at them,” Charlie Read and I put this together as a way of shortening the process of reviewing the fundamental structure of stories with folks who are already familiar with it… simply a review.

The Cast

     We named the young man holding the girl Jeffrey. We named the other young man Jake and the girl Julie. The ghostlike character Fate. The Snake and the Crow round out the first circle members of the cast.

     Jeffrey is the protagonist, Jake the sidekick, Julie the love interest, and Fate represents the unpredictable antagonistic forces of nature and societal institutions.

Creating a Story

     The tree defines the course the protagonist must take to reach the goal of getting the $10,000 bill on the treetop. The Crow is an antagonistic force because he is threatening to steal the $10,000 bill before Jeffrey can get to it. The snake is a frightening antagonistic force, not only to Jeffrey but also to the Crow. Snakes love to eat birds.

     Then there’s the poison ivy… 

     As you can probably imagine, many potential story plots and character revealing behaviors were suggested by the participants.

The Writing Exercises

     Each writing exercise was allotted twenty minutes writing time and followed by a read around with guided discussions of each participant’s contribution. The exercises are designed to demonstrate one or more fundamental factors that can influence a fictional character’s actions and growth in various roles.

High Emotion

     I found many of the pieces written by the participants emotionally moving while watching the participant’s reactions as they wrote and during the read arounds. But the exercise on Moral Dilemmas stood out, as the most emotionally demanding to the whole group… there were no dry eyes at its conclusion.

Writing Like a Method Actor Acts

     At previous retreats, we had an actor come in for the session on immersive character development. The objective was to define a character using method acting techniques. This time we had no actor.

     We gathered comfortably in the parlor with the chairs arranged in a circle. I asked if anyone had any thespian experience. One volunteered that she has some experience in a drama class in school and gave an explaination of Method Acting.

     When an actor is just acting, as we might witness at a high school play, it’s easy to spot. Often their diction, mannerisms, and expressions failed to match what they’re saying and the character they’re portraying lacks authenticity.

     An actor practicing method acting, will immerse himself in the personality of the character he is portraying and in his mind become that character. During his performance, he will assume the character’s body carriage, gestures, and physical idiosyncrasies; his speech will reflect the tone, dialect, and vocabulary, including slang and idioms the character would use. He will seem completely authentic to the audience.

     A writer writing writerly, using grammatically correct sentences, a scholarly vocabulary, and appropriate adverbs and adjectives might credibly portray the personality and physical traits of the character. Unfortunately, these often lean toward the stereotypical and lack authenticity.

     A writer immersed in the personality of the character can use method writing to authentically portray the character much in the same way as the method actor.

     We discussed methods writers can use to get into character, such as a conversation or interview using our reflection in a mirror as the character; Improvisation with a cohort. We even formed a improv circle and had great fun passing extempore phrases around our circle. And finally we used music to set a mood and get into the character portrayed by the vocalist.

A Terrific Demonstration

     We were fortunate to have a guest, who will remain unnamed, demonstrate getting into the personality of a special character. She explained how through makeup, costume, and meditation she is able to get into character and attend parties and other events without being recognized by close friends and relatives. We witnessed her transformation and experienced a wonderful visit from a delightfully entertaining character none of us knew.

Yeah! We Made It

     It was intense, it was tough, and it was fun. We stretched our creative comfort zone; we made new friends and enriched existing friendships. We learned, and we taught; listened, laughed, and shed a tear or two and are better writers in many ways.

“Nothing is impossible until you quit.”