It's IWSG Day. The goal of this blog hop is to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without
fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire
can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure
writers of all kinds. The brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh, our brilliant ninja leader. To read posts from other members, click here.
This month's option question? Have you ever slipped any of your
personal information into your characters either by accident or on purpose?
I rewrote a scene the other day in which my character has an overwhelming shock. To make it feel real, I channeled
two of my own experiences. The first? A day at work when someone got into my
face in a way-over-the-top, completely unprofessional way. Since I was at work I
couldn’t say what I was thinking, nor could I give into my impulse to lunge
over my desk and throttle the—well, let’s use the word "antagonist." Somehow,
I managed to keep my voice low and calm, all while my head threatened to
explode and my vision got blurry. Blood pressure on high, I believe.
To that, I mixed in memories of
fainting. I don’t make a habit of it, but there’s some kind of low blood sugar/pressure
disposition in my family to faint. Similar to what happens to people before
they get a migraine or seizure, I get a warning when I’m going to faint–an out
of context feeling of intense dread. If that happens and I don’t get my head
down fast, my vision starts to go wonky, dark stains drown out the light and,
plop, I go down. Here’s the interesting part. I dream when I faint. I also get
sick afterwards.
I used those two examples in the
following scene. You be the judge.
“You
think Ed had something to do with Trevor?” Marnie felt as if her organs had
swollen, as if they’d burst out of her skin. The shed in front of her dissolved
into black splotches. Afraid she was about to pass out, she squatted, ducking
her head between her knees, bile bitter at the back of her throat. She fought
for control but darkness carried her through mist and fog to a different land,
a place where Trevor and Angelique still slept safe and alive in a tent behind her
grape arbor.
She had no idea how long it was until she became aware of the grass inhabiting the space between her feet, or Rosalie's strong arm holding her up off the ground. "Deep breaths," her sister said. Keep your head down. Let the blood get back in there."
Marnie lifted her head, repeating her earlier question. "Ed had something to do with Trevor?" Her voice sounded tinny. As if she spoke into a empty can.
She had no idea how long it was until she became aware of the grass inhabiting the space between her feet, or Rosalie's strong arm holding her up off the ground. "Deep breaths," her sister said. Keep your head down. Let the blood get back in there."
Marnie lifted her head, repeating her earlier question. "Ed had something to do with Trevor?" Her voice sounded tinny. As if she spoke into a empty can.
Rosalie
pushed her head down again. “I don’t know. I have no idea what that backpack
was doing there. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It threw me, but Vinnie and I both
thought it made no sense to upset you until we had some idea what it was all
about.”
As
she crouched in front of Rosalie’s shed trying to fathom the discovery of her
son’s missing backpack, she remembered the night she'd encountered Ed at
the movies so long ago. Unable to control it any longer, she retched, losing her
dinner. Rosalie held her head, her hands cool on Marnie’s hot forehead as she
pulled herself up from her knees, coughing.
(Google is wonky today! No matter what I tried to do, I could not get that third to last paragraph to indent.)
How does your real life color your writing?
