Monday musings: Inside the shell of character

I love buying eggs from my next-door neighbor.

Aren’t they lovely?  So many different colors! On the outside, anyway — inside, eggs are eggs.  Lisa has at least four varieties of hens running around her yard, maybe even five or six.  It’s so much fun to look out my kitchen window and see them scurrying to and fro in search of bugs and other good things to eat.

We used to have chickens, too, but they eventually went into chicken retirement.  (You can read about that here.)  They provided not only eggs (and amusement), but also food for thought.  Click here for a link to a blog post from a few years back that was inspired by a little backyard observation.

That’s the best kind of observation, really, isn’t it?

So what does this motley dozen nesting on my kitchen table tell me today?  Well, perhaps that despite our outward trappings–race, nationality, gender, faith, age, political leanings, etc.–on the inside, where it really counts, we’re all the same.  As a writer, I’ve learned that it’s the inside of my characters that counts, too. Whether I’m writing about a girl on an adventure at sea in 1835 (THE VOYAGE OF PATIENCE GOODSPEED), a mouse who dreams of being a secret agent and the fifth grade boy who helps her out (THE BLACK PAW), modern-day stepsisters on the receiving end of a spell gone terribly wrong (ONCE UPON A TOAD), or a whole cast of moms and daughters who end up reading the classics together (THE MOTHER-DAUGHTER BOOK CLUB), it’s the heart of the matter that’s most important.

Sure, I need to pay attention to details like dress and appearance and mannerisms and all that.  It’s part of my job (and a very fun part, I might add) to make the window dressing as interesting and alluring as possible.  But what is it that really connects us to those who live out their lives on the written page? What is it that makes some characters wrap themselves around our hearts?  Think Charlotte and Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web.  Or India Opal Buloni in Because of Winn-Dixie.  Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird.  

It’s what’s on the inside, isn’t it?  It’s their hopes and fears and worries, their dreams and yearnings.  Those “inside the egg” things that each one of us can relate to, and that ultimately connect us all.  So when you’re writing, be sure to crack open that shell and breathe life into your character from the inside.

Give your character a heart, and it will speak to the heart in your reader.






Good neighbors and good eggs

Dahilas 1Seventeen years ago this week we moved from Boston to Portland, Oregon, a place we’d never even visited before.  We’d had it with the East Coast rat race — not to mention a two-hour commute each day — and were ready to light out for the territories.

We’ve never looked back.

We landed in a ’50s ranch tucked away in a quiet little neighborhood ten minutes from downtown.  From my kitchen window I can see my neighbor’s barn and tidy home, part of the original dahlia farm from which our small subdivision was fashioned.  I was reminded of this last night when my husband and I took our dog for a walk.  It was twilight, and suddenly the air was alight with swallows.  We stood and watched them dipping and wheeling in their graceful airborne dance.  Then just as suddenly, they were gone.

Swallows’ Haven Farm is long gone, too, but my neighbor honors its memory by growing dahlias of her own.  Come winter, she’ll dig up the tubers and store them in the original bulb house with its wall lined with wooden drawers, but now, in late summer, her garden is alive with color.  She plants dozens of varieties and produces dazzling bouquets, many of which, like this one on my breakfast table this morning , make it across the back fence to our house.  So do vegetables of all varieties, and now that she’s added her own flock of chickens, so do fresh eggs.  It’s like having our own private farmer’s market. 

Her chickens arrived just as we were saying goodbye to ours (see my related post “End of an era“), so the eggs have been especially welcome.  I bake fresh bread each week for my family, and I give her a loaf in exchange for a dozen.  It’s an arrangement that makes everybody happy. 

But then, who wouldn’t be happy, living next door to such a wonderful neighbor — and such a good egg?

End of an era

We said good-bye to our chickens today.

After several enjoyable years as a chicken mama, the time finally came to turn the page on this chapter of my life.  A little too much mess, a little too much extra work, a little too much, um, poo.

Fortunately, our sons’ wonderful first grade teacher, who is a dear friend, offered to adopt them.  She’s an enthusiastic urban farmer, and every year she hatches out eggs in her classroom.  I still remember how excited our boys were the week that the chicks arrived.  I also remember how excited our youngest was after an impromptu visit to her home, where he spent a thrilling hour in the backyard hunting for eggs.  Afterwards, he announced that he was going to start a business when he grew up, and that he already had a name for it: 1-800-Egg-Finders.  “I’ll bet a lot of farmers will want to hire me,” he told us confidently.

(Much to his embarrassment, I reminded him of this a few years ago when I brought three little chicks home from the feed store.)

In the time they spent with us, our “girls” provided not only eggs, but also endless entertainment.  They were convinced that Bonnie, our Shetland Sheepdog, was their mother, and spent their days trailing around after her.  One chicken even took to laying her eggs in the dog house.  All three of them were determined to be house pets, and any door left open more than a crack would soon find a chicken sneaking through it.

Our boys are all grown up now, one about to graduate high school and the other soon to start his senior year in college.  They’re no longer as thrilled with chickens, nor with the responsibility that comes with raising them.  They have been enjoying their hunting trips though, if you’re curious about them, you can learn more by clicking here. And I’m finding that as I devote more and more of my time to writing books these days, I have less and less time for other things.  Especially other things that need to be fed, watered, shooed out of the house and the garden, or otherwise watched over.  So this morning my husband and I rounded up our trio of hens — Dixie, Trixie, and Pixie — and drove them to their new home.  It’s a little piece of chicken heaven, with several lush acres to roam, a sturdy red hen-house filled with new feathered friends, and overseeing it all, a resident llama.  Who could ask for more?

Still, I’ll miss our girls.