Bo-Bo Knows Mom Writes from the Twilight Zone

I met a character from my novel on Friday. It happened while I was catching a quick bite to eat and writing long hand about a character who's not coming to life the way he should.

In strong fiction, every character should be like the Gingerbread Man--writers can mix and roll out the dough all they want, but if their cookies never jump up and dance, they'll never taste quite right to readers.

As writers, we know our dead-dough characters when we we see them. They're the ones we cut extra perfectly. The ones we ice with tender care. The ones we save our edible gold sprinkles to decorate. But our characters always taste better when we go back to our bowls and mix up a more convincing collection of character traits and motivations. If our characters aren't dancing gingerbread men, no one wants to know them long term, icing and gold sprinkles be damned.

So on Friday afternoon in a Boston Market somewhere off I-495, I was hunched over my purple journal with my lovely, new roller ball pen, scribbling away about my dead gingerbread man of a character. I was in that special, writing place. You know. The one where you let your hand gallop ahead, messy as she pleases, in the hopes that she'll outrace your preconceptions about a character you've known (or thought you've known) for years. And it was working, too. I'd settled on a new name, and I had that lit-sparkler-in-your-blood feeling that heralds a potential solution. When I looked up to catch my breath, there he was: a man of spry wit and doddering body, and he was lowering his tray in the booth next to mine!

This is the point where a sane person would expect Rod Serling* to step out of the men's room and start narrating her day. But writers aren't really sane. I swapped my seat so my back wasn't to my flesh-and-blood gingerbread man, kicked my phone into video mode, and took footage of this guy's slow, bow-legged steps and the way he held his fork like he was hugging his plate. Apparently I enjoy being a creep in the name of better fiction.

I don't believe in muse as goddesses a la the ancient Greeks, but I do believe in the muse as spirit. Turn away from your writing blocks, and your muse is likely to feel like a fickle, fairy bitch; dive toward your writing blocks and your muse is the giver of sparklers and dancing gingerbread men. So go ahead. Shove your hand into that mixing bowl and make your cookies dance.


*The Twilight Zone. Come ON, people!