Setting: Selection and Significance

By definition, every novel must have at least one setting. Even if a science fiction author were to write about a character floating around in a great abyss of nothingness, that abyss is still the place where things happen (or don’t happen, as the case may be). So how do writers choose the location for their story? How much does that choice matter to the story?

In my first novella, My Apple Tree, the setting was never specified for the reader. It could have been any town, really. The reality was that in my own mind the story was set in Joplin, Missouri, my mother’s hometown. The setting in this case was more important to me than the reader, and it definitely influenced the way I felt about the story and the choices I made concerning the plot and characters. After a devastating tornado leveled a third of the city, I went to visit my family there. What I saw had a profound impact on me, and that overwhelming mix of grief and rebirth was transferred to the story and my characters. So in that instance, the setting was very significant, but not in a way that the audience would necessarily be aware of. Normally, I would post pictures to illustrate my point. Although I do have pictures of the affected area, the devastation and loss these people faced is too personal to broadcast. However, the cover photo was taken at a nearby cemetery where much of my family is buried, and so that, too, has deep personal significance for me.

The significance of setting was flipped around for Wishing Cotton. For this story, the setting I envisioned was entirely fictional. I just needed a summer resort on a beach, with isolated cabins and a nearby funfair to suit the needs of my story. In other words, the setting was determined by the demands of the plot rather than the other way around. Beyond its function to support the story I wanted to tell, the setting has no further significance to me as a writer. Because of this, the only details I provide are ones that are necessary in order to present each scene clearly. Otherwise, the characters could be anywhere else and the plot could remain largely unaffected.

Setting again became important when I wrote my historical romance, The Truth Seekers. For this novel, I used a real-life location as the foundation for the story. Although I employ a great deal of artistic license, my protagonists Geoffrey Hawes and Miranda Claridge meet for the first time in an unnamed fictional community that is based on the very real Chautauqua Institution in New York State. 

Athenaeum Hotel

The grounds of this historic community preserve a great deal of the world that Geoffrey and Miranda would have inhabited, and the focus on philosophy, art, music, and learning lends itself to a novel of this type. It was simple to imagine two Victorian lovers debating the merits of different social and philosophical principles in such a setting. While I did change a number of minor details, such as turning the very real Packard Manor into the governor’s mansion, the architecture, landscape, and pace of the location are kept very true to life.

Geoffrey first encounters Miranda in the Hall of Philosophy, which not only is a real building on the grounds at Chautauqua, but also is the source of the book’s title. 

 

The Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle is the longest continuously running book club in the United States, and for many years, each year’s theme was preserved in mosaics running along the floor of the Hall. Visitors to the Hall of Philosophy can easily find The Truth Seekers mosaic.

In many ways, my love of Chautauqua influenced my handling of Geoffrey and Miranda’s story, but at the same time, it would not have been possible to envision their story in the first place without having experienced the setting beforehand. This is a place where it is easy to picture what life must have been like one hundred years ago, and it is also a place where one can feel the passage of time and the natural continuity of life and love and time. A great deal of the grounds have remained largely unchanged and are teeming with artists, authors, poets, dancers, musicians, theologians, and thinkers. It would be near impossible for a creative person to be in such an environment and not be inspired. Because of this, The Truth Seekers became not only a love story between two people, but it is also the story of an author’s love for a place. I hope that by bringing Geoffrey and Miranda’s world to life, I have also captured in some small way the magic of this small, precious community.

Miller Bell Tower on Lake Chautauqua

In these three examples, you see how differently setting can be used to shape and influence a story and its characters. For writers, it is important to consider the role setting plays in a piece so that the handling of locations and environments complements the tale you are trying to tell. For readers, it is often a subtle influence that can color your perception of the world each new character inhabits. Either way, settings are something to enjoy and explore, even if only in one’s imagination.

On Failure

I am a failure.

(Stick with me. My story gets better.)

February has always been a miserable month for me, and this one was especially so. Now that it’s (thankfully) the final day of that month, I’ve been thinking about all the ways I’ve fallen short over the course of my life.

In grade school, I stopped doing my homework because it was uninteresting, unchallenging, and silly, and I’d figured out that my grades at that level weren’t really going to impact my future enough to worry over. In high school, I did do my work, but I didn’t actually try. I made no effort to excel or distinguish myself. The after-school clubs were left unjoined, and papers and projects alike were completed like a recipe in the kitchen—one cup of hypothesis, three tablespoons of salient points, a dash of reference material, and bake. I was not engaged; I was a mass-production line.

It had always been assumed that college would be my time to shine. While the classes were far more interesting, I still did not put anything close to my best effort into my work. I dated a thoroughly unsuitable boy, bringing him home to meet my parents and ensuring many sleepless nights for them while they worried I’d keep him (I didn’t). My performance at school was perfectly adequate, but that was all. There was nothing on paper to show that I was intelligent, unique, and had something to offer the world. I did not go on to graduate school as I’d wanted, and I did not land a decent job when I graduated. It was several years before I had anything even remotely resembling a career, and I was only brought to it out of necessity rather than ambition.

While the official reason for my departure from that career was my children’s special needs, there will forever be a voice in the back of my head adding that another reason was that I sucked at it. It never felt real to me, and I was incredibly unhappy. I couldn’t be one of those moms who juggle everything, keep lists, vacuum more than once a year, and get up at 5 a.m. to do Pilates. In a lot of ways, when I quit my job to stay home, I felt like I was bailing on adulthood.

Since then, I’ve edited a pile of novels and published my own work. My royalties are abysmal. I do nothing to change that, make no effort to really market and promote. I even am seized with the impulse to apologize to those who have spent money on my books.

Sorry I suck. Better luck next time.

However. If I hadn’t lived the life I’ve led, so many things would have been lost. I never would have dated my husband if I hadn’t been so determined to date my ex’s opposite. I never would have been a parent who could respond to her children’s social and academic anxiety with compassion and understanding. I never would have been able to support my friends without judgment when their lives fell apart. I never would have learned how to engage and really try when the object is genuinely important to me.

I have unpaid bills, holes in my carpets, and missing plaster on my walls. My house will never be on the historical register. I may never be a successful author. My kids will definitely never be entirely “normal.” My middle-age spread has evolved into what might be called a hostile takeover of neighboring space. I frequently forget to floss. In the eyes of the world around me, I am a failure.

When I’m with my husband, it still feels like we’re dating. I still get butterflies in my stomach when he smiles at me. When I talk to my children, I see whole worlds in their eyes that no one else can access but them. When I help an author understand how to tap into a manuscript’s full potential, I feel a huge sense of accomplishment, as well as gratitude for the opportunity to be a part of that process. When I write, I am happy and focused and learn to know myself better. I stretch and challenge and grow.

Being a failure is pretty damn fantastic.

Why is Writing so Hard?

My husband, bless him, believes that I’m talented. This means that he has trouble understanding why I haven’t written ten best-sellers already. “Just write it,” he says, blissfully unaware of the challenges that he’s waving aside so dismissively.

He’s not entirely wrong, of course. To write a book, there is a critical requirement that at some point your butt hits a chair and you write it. No matter what your “process” is, at the end of the day you must translate your ideas and imaginings to paper. However, there is a lot more that goes into the creation of a novel than that, and it is often these invisible considerations that make the task so daunting.

1. First, the writer must overcome “I-Suck-itis.” 

The split second that you start listening to that voice in your head that tells you all your ideas are rubbish and your writing is crap, you are done. While an inflated ego is not required, you do have to have at least a whisper of belief that what you write has merit and will appeal to someone out there. Because we all have good days and bad days, a lot of writing time is lost to those moments when we are grappling with self-doubt. Even disciplined writers with daily quotas have been known to meet those quotas by writing about how badly they suck. Often after a bad review or critique.

2. Next, the writer must address the limitations of an idea. 

You want to write a story about the caretaker of a creepy old house who must fight off four trespassing teenagers and a large talking dog? Great. What happens? How does the tension build? How will each character develop? What is the climax? In other words, just coming up with an exciting premise for a book is not the same thing as figuring out the complexities of plot and character that come together to bring that premise to life.

3. The characters. 

Non-writers do not understand that once a character is given life, its creator has about as much control over it as a parent does over a teen-aged daughter’s moods. Frequently, characters wander off in unplottable directions, and the author is left scrambling to catch up. These little surprises can often turn the story outline on its ear, stretching and challenging the writer to come up with new ideas and solutions. This requires a lot of thinking, pacing, and muttering to oneself. Hair-pulling and inarticulate growls can also manifest themselves.

4. Then there’s real life. 

Spouses and children expect to be interacted with on a semi-regular basis. Some attention to hygiene must be paid as well. Phones must be answered, taxes must be filed, and food must be purchased and consumed. Even if a writer were to be able to neglect all these things indefinitely, it would still be a problem, since we must experience these human interactions and activities in order to write realistically. So much inspiration comes from the small moments in our days that becoming a hermit to write a book is a self-defeating tactic.

I would love to be a full-time novelist, but it’s not feasible. Bills must be paid, and working as an editor makes that more likely to happen. When I’m not editing, I still have two special-needs children to tend to (sometimes three, if my husband is having a rough day). I do have a work in progress currently that I’d like to take a determined stab at finishing, so I plan to blog about that process periodically in the hopes that this may give me further insight into my own writing process. Also, I think some readers might find it interesting. Let's see how far my husband's "just write it" approach can get me!

Disgustingly Sentimental Christmas Blog

It is perhaps both typical and telling that my Christmas blog post begins with a recent conversation I had with a psychologist. After all, the holidays are all about families, and if ever a family existed to stun therapists the world over, it’s mine. 

This particular doctor asked me to describe a typical Christmas celebration in my family.

"Typical? Um..."

Now, I actually do feel some pity for the mental health care professionals who deal with me and mine, so I didn’t laugh in his face. Bless the man, I’m sure he was envisioning a large, rowdy get-together with shared jokes and stories and children’s laughter amid bows and ribbons and eggnog. I can’t honestly say I’ve ever actually encountered eggnog in the flesh. It’s always seemed like an exotic myth, like flying reindeer or benevolent carolers who weren’t paid to be there.

Nowadays, Christmas in my home consists of loosely organized wrapping paper carnage first thing in the morning, followed by the requisite pilgrimage to my parents’ house for dinner. There, we eat on fancy plates we’ll have to hand wash, and there will be at least one or two properly strange contributions to the menu. One year when I was very pregnant, it was fresh mint in the green beans, which my sensitive nose did not appreciate. There is no children’s table, so we all participate in one central conversation, which sounds really lively and convivial until you remember who is sitting at the table.

The older generation governs the ebb and flow of conversation. In my case, these wise forebears are my father, mother, aunt, and uncle. For the uninitiated, that’s a Doctor of Inorganic Chemistry and former Director of Technology of a major international corporation; a Doctor of English Literature and former Executive Director for yet another international corporation; the former head of Literature for the area’s most important library and current darling of theater luminaries, who are forever begging her for research and copies of long-forgotten musical scores; and a history scholar who also is something of an expert in oriental rugs and organic fruit for reasons that escape me. Two Republicans and two Democrats. Two Episcopalians and two Roman Catholics.

To say that the dinner conversation is a tad academic would be putting it mildly. 

The evening ends with a frankly bloodthirsty game of Monopoly between my mother and aunt. The rest of us have learned not to interfere. The noncombatants swill glasses of port, nibble ginger cookies, and stare at the fire until a decent interval has passed and we can disperse.

However, this is my father’s side of the family. When I was a child, we spent Christmases with my mother’s family.

"Sing it, Perry!"

Christmas in Kansas was possibly my favorite childhood memory. Granny would make chocolate and peanut butter fudge, my grandfather would smoke his pipe and growl at everyone, my mother would dither, and my father would immerse himself in a crossword puzzle. My cousins and I would dress the Pomeranian in felt dolls’ clothes, hammer at the organ until our elders yelled, and laugh late into the night when my mother’s eyes would bulge with rage and we’d finally settle down. We sometimes wandered down to what was rather optimistically called the park, but was really a stone arch that gave way to a muddy clearing with a couple of large, cement pipes half-embedded in the grass. 

The shed at the back of the house was perfect for exploring, and I remember laughing over my mother’s impossibly pointed shoes from the 1950s and my grandfather’s naughty magazines. 

Do they still make Shrinky Dinks? Those things were pure genius. This was also the era of Star Wars. What 1970s childhood could be complete without a Princess Leia doll with real hair? Of course those gigantic buns didn’t last long, but she was still one of my favorite toys. I had an Uhura doll, too. I know you’re jealous.

The tree was plastic and glorious, the long drape of tinsel falling from star to floor, providing tantalizing peeks at the gaudy World War II era ornaments beneath. Perry Como would be crooning Christmas carols over the eight-track player, and I would scamper out in my prim Muppet Show nightgown with the frill at the ankle and bask in the excitement and anticipation. We children were always well-rested on Christmas morning, thanks to the administration of Granny’s famous hot toddies the night before. In later years, Granny got lazy and would just hand out shots of vodka. All I know is that we never stayed up late on Christmas Eve. 

Ho-ho-hangover

It’s amazing how many of your childhood experiences can’t be repeated with your own children just because it would land you in jail.

"Keep 'em coming, Granny!"

Anyway, the thing my children have missed out on (other than being knocked out with high-proof liquor) is the large, chaotic family get-together. I suppose I could get melancholy about it, but I think they’re happy with the less social, more sedate celebrations they’ve grown up with. As the only children in the house, and the only grandchildren, they are doted upon and spoiled rotten. I even occasionally catch them paying attention to the debates over the influence of 13^th Century monasticism on the development of modern-day politics. They know they are loved and surrounded by the familiar and comforting, and I suppose that is all a child really needs to capture that holiday magic.

The fire starts to die, and the conversation tapers off. The boys watch their great-aunt tuck their dozing mother under a blanket, and they are amused that here, their mother is still a child. Their grandfather magically produces the batteries that weren’t included, while their father mutters over microscopic screws as he assembles the most interesting toy (now that the gouges from the hard plastic packaging have stopped bleeding). Grandmother cackles, malicious glee marking the acquisition of Park Place. Her victim groans, and her rueful laughter becomes part of the tapestry of my children’s memories.

My mother's kingdom.

What we pass on to our children and grandchildren isn’t the tradition. Presents at night or morning, holiday supper or breakfast or tea, midnight mass or sunrise service. None of that matters much. I know that lots of people don’t get those holiday warm fuzzy feelings, and this will sound like sentimental rubbish to them. That’s okay.

I totally respect your opinion.

My point is that, regardless of whether you celebrate Saturnalia, Hanukkah, Christmas, or nothing at all, the rituals that bind a family exist to comfort and reassure.  We are reminded of our connectedness, even as the world changes around us. 

When a new family starts out, new traditions grow out of the disparate backgrounds of both parents. Children grow up and make their own families, with new traditions of their own. What matters most is that we retain that connectedness and honor what has gone before, without allowing it to hold us captive to the past. We let our memories warm and reassure us, taking a deep breath of that fortifying air, and then return to the world for another year.

I don’t know what answer that psychologist was looking for from me. The Christmas of my childhood is long gone, as is that of my husband. I’ve taken the elements from my memories that were the most magical and preserved them for my own children, but by and large, we celebrate in our own way. While I may occasionally feel a sentimental twinge for the way things used to be, I know that we need to embrace the changes in our families to move forward. We can rejoice in some changes, while others break our hearts. At the end of the day, the holidays are for sharing love, memories, solace, and gratitude with each other. That’s the part we need to preserve most of all.

And Perry Como. Gotta preserve the Perry.