Good writing is often designed around
a character who has a distorted vision
of himself or of the world. During the
story, he is placed under sufficient pressure
to force an epiphany, a moment of clarity
in which, he sees the world as it is,
not as he wished it to be.
A classic example is "Casablanca," where
Bogart's immortal Rick has managed to
create an insular world in which he can
pretend to be utterly detached and uninvolved.
He supposedly has no political beliefs,
and no real human connections. But the
reappearance of Ilsa forces a cascade
of events that cause Rick to reexamine
his attitudes about love, fate, patriotism,
courage, fidelity, friendship, and life
itself. Rick begins as a damaged, closed
off character, carrying wounds to his
heart and ego. What he WANTS is to be
left alone to his self-pity. What he NEEDS
is to be re-awakened to a life of purpose.
The writers, wisely, give Rick what he
needs, not what he wants, and in that
manner a classic was born.
In LifewritingT we trust that the quality
of a writer's skill will be heightened
by his evolution as a human being-in other
words, his ability to write people will
be based on his capacity for honest observation
of himself and others. His ability to
turn a plot creatively will be based on
his understanding of the world as it is-not
as we often fantasize it to be. This ability
to create moments of suspense, revelation,
humor and horror often triggers an "ah!
Life is just like that!" response from
the audience, a recognition of universal
humanity that can transcend culture and
time.
The easiest way to learn this is to look
at our own lives. None of us make it through
our years without wounds, damage, pain.
Just as physical scar tissue shortens
muscles and limits mobility, emotional
scar tissue creates "armoring" around
our hearts. It also begins to warp our
reality, as we create justifications for
why THIS relationship self-destructed,
or THAT job crashed and burned.once again.
It's never our fault, of course. The opposite,
and even more damaging reaction is to
take not just responsibility for our failures,
but massive guilt as well. Our lives don't
work (so the reasoning goes) because we
are bad, terrible, horrible people undeserving
of healthy bodies or relationships or
careers.
Either attitude clouds our vision, makes
it difficult to see the world as it is.
Those clouded inner eyes and warped "reality
maps" make it very difficult to navigate
a path to our chosen goals. Again and
again we will bark our shins on invisible
rocks, crashing into invisible walls,
almost as if life is trying to teach us,
to educate us, to enlighten us as to the
realities of existence.
What we WANT is the comforting womb of
our illusions. What we NEED is to be born
into the world as it actually is.
Often, we are dragged kicking and screaming
into clarity, forced ultimately to accept
the ways we've been wrong. "Too soon old,
too late smart" is one rather fatalistic
way of speaking of this process. Too often,
we must be old before we grasp that WE
are the ones who sabotaged our dreams
of success. We are the ones who refused
to exercise and eat reasonably-that our
bodies are more the result of our behaviors
than our genetics. We are the ones who
broke communication in our relationships,
who lied and withheld and blamed, and
thought that "the other person" was responsible
for our misery. We are the ones who refused
to grow up, to stop blaming our parents,
or society, or racism, ageism, sexism
or any other "ism" for our lack of happiness.
Too late, we are battered by one failure
or disappointment after another, until
the ego walls we created to protect our
self-image are shattered, and we're forced
into contact with our true selves. The
moment of death is supposed to be absolutely
first rate at creating such clarity, a
realization of our true values, and regret
at the way we sold out our true potential.
But there are events that create clarity.
The birth of a first child. A near-death
experience. Accomplishing some worthy
and transforming goal. The first deep
and true moment of love or friendship.
Transformation. In such moments, we see
ourselves for the magnificent, wounded,
earthy, spiritual beings that we are.
We forgive ourselves, and our families,
and the world around us, knowing that
we have no right to expect more perfection
from others than we ourselves possess.
And as the saying goes, "all have sinned
and fallen short of the glory of God."
No perfect people in this world. Accept
it. And move on.
Stories that deal with these core stressors--life,
death, birth, transformation, love-are
always, and have always been the most
popular stories in human history. Under
this stress, your character, robbed of
their self-justifying lies, must speak
the truth. Under these stressors, they
are revealed in their magnificence.or
sometimes (especially if they refuse to
acknowledge reality) revealed in their
venality, cowardice, and dishonesty.
This is one of the functions of story.
The writer must create story pressures
beyond the capacity of the characters
to maintain their illusions. Then, and
only then, can you reveal their true natures.
To do this, just look at the times in
your own life that you awakened, transformed,
grew, went kicking and screaming into
the next level of your life. Then create
dramatic exaggerations or simplifications
of these passages, and create characters
to experience them. Let them be as human-as
flawed and magnificent-as you yourself
are. As we all are. Heighten their qualities
for the sake of drama, to be sure, but
always, always, at their core, let them
be human, whatever it is that you believe
human beings to be.
Let them struggle. Let them learn. Let
them love.
Let them live.
Do this, and it will mark the beginning
of a beautiful friendship.between you,
your muse, and a world audience starved
for entertaining truth.
This article was posted on December
08, 2005
