Friday, May 05, 2006
Susan Speaks: Yep, it's true. I am Trevor Wolff.
Okay, I'll admit it: I'd love to have a song written about me, preferably a love song, not a "You broke my heart, die you evil bitch scum" song.
But people don't want to be turned into a fictional character; it doesn't hold the same charm, somehow. Yet they sure are fast to pick up on a negative characteristic and assume that a character is them.
I'm here to tell you, folks, that no matter how well I know you, you aren't my characters. I am. Or they are me; something like that.
Even if I had been a good enough writer to fictionalize a living person, I learned my lesson in grad school when one of my classmates saw a number of her wedding invitations declined because her family members thought they saw themselves on the pages of her first short story collection.
Now, I'll freely admit to stealing events that happen from you. Like the time I was on the phone with a friend and one of her kids sneezed right on the head of the other one. I mean, come ON. If that's not something Mitchell and Amy would do to each other, I don't know what is.
But back to how my characters are me. Today, I did what can only be called "pulling a Trevor."
I walked into the locker room at the gym this morning and found a woman (not one of the regulars, obviously) taking up the bench space near the locker I was using even though her own locker was at the other end of the row. She was on her cell phone, despite a prominently posted no cell phone policy.
I opened my locker and started rummaging through my stuff. Did she move? No. Did she react when my Gatorade fell out of my locker and damn near landed on my cheekbone? No.
Did she keep chatting?
You betcha.
Was she still there after my shower? Had she moved?
Do I really need to answer those questions?
I went over to my locker and turned to her, my dirty gym clothes balled up in my hand, and started to hand them to her. I then pretended to realize she was there, and tossed them on the floor instead.
She beat a pretty hasty retreat after that.
The part of me that's Trevor was pretty darn proud of myself.
I have another outtake for you guys soon. This one's for us girls.
But people don't want to be turned into a fictional character; it doesn't hold the same charm, somehow. Yet they sure are fast to pick up on a negative characteristic and assume that a character is them.
I'm here to tell you, folks, that no matter how well I know you, you aren't my characters. I am. Or they are me; something like that.
Even if I had been a good enough writer to fictionalize a living person, I learned my lesson in grad school when one of my classmates saw a number of her wedding invitations declined because her family members thought they saw themselves on the pages of her first short story collection.
Now, I'll freely admit to stealing events that happen from you. Like the time I was on the phone with a friend and one of her kids sneezed right on the head of the other one. I mean, come ON. If that's not something Mitchell and Amy would do to each other, I don't know what is.
But back to how my characters are me. Today, I did what can only be called "pulling a Trevor."
I walked into the locker room at the gym this morning and found a woman (not one of the regulars, obviously) taking up the bench space near the locker I was using even though her own locker was at the other end of the row. She was on her cell phone, despite a prominently posted no cell phone policy.
I opened my locker and started rummaging through my stuff. Did she move? No. Did she react when my Gatorade fell out of my locker and damn near landed on my cheekbone? No.
Did she keep chatting?
You betcha.
Was she still there after my shower? Had she moved?
Do I really need to answer those questions?
I went over to my locker and turned to her, my dirty gym clothes balled up in my hand, and started to hand them to her. I then pretended to realize she was there, and tossed them on the floor instead.
She beat a pretty hasty retreat after that.
The part of me that's Trevor was pretty darn proud of myself.
I have another outtake for you guys soon. This one's for us girls.
Labels: Susan Speaks
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It's pretty sad when it takes dirty gym clothes to get her to move.
I can't wait to see another outtake. :)
I can't wait to see another outtake. :)
Yeah, dirty gym clothes succeeded where my naked body failed...
Wonder what THAT says?
Outtake in a few days, I suspect.
Wonder what THAT says?
Outtake in a few days, I suspect.
I completely hear you on that one, all my characters are definitely facets of myself. I can't say how many times Beep and I are "Well that was a Fenris moment... oh yeah, that was Michael wasn't it? Oh no, I'm not Jordan at all..." I do say yes I write her as fictional, but that's only because the two of us have created our little area together, no one else makes an appearance, cause it's just for us, and we like it that way!
Who else CAN characters be, truly? Because they are part of us, they come from us, but unlike children, they don't have free will or minds of their own (thank God) -- well, usually. But even when asserting "their" own will in a story or book, it's still coming from US, so part of us is always there.
Even when they surprise us.
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Even when they surprise us.
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