You Can't Understand Me!

There's a discussion (argument?) going on this week on DorothyL, a site for readers and writers of mystery. Someone asked what makes readers cringe in a suspenseful novel, and one responder said, "When the character is caught somewhere in an emergency situation with a phone that has a low battery. Who forgets to charge their phone these days?" That began a ton of comments on whether or not a sane person in this modern era doesn't know his phone needs charging periodically and carry a car charger, etc., etc., etc.

I don't care. But it did bring to my mind what a psychologist friend of long ago once told me: generations can get along, they can even sympathize, but they cannot truly understand each other.

Each of us grows up in an era, and that era has memes, experiences, and beliefs. The next generation or the previous one can learn about them but does not live them. That makes each generation different, and they see different things as important, even crucial, for daily living.

A young friend recently asked me if I'd let her paint my toenails. When I told her I could care less about toenails, mine or anyone else's, she was visibly shocked. "I can't go out without paint on mine," she told me. "I'd feel naked."

Now, I know there are women my age who are into pedicures, but attention to toes (feet in general) wasn't required when we set mental standards back in our early years. Therefore I, and many others of my generation, ignore the current fascination--dare I say, fetish--with feet.

That doesn't make us superior beings. My own "I can't stand this" case was shaving my legs. My mother could not understand why I'd want to do such a thing. "It's just a little hair," she used to tell me. "If a boy likes you, he'll like you with or without it." Her generation didn't see hair removal as important. Mine was pretty harsh on girls with hairy legs.

Each generation wants to be different from the generations before: how else can we explain white lipstick, dropped pants, and raccoon coats? Those within the generation honestly think they're cooler, or righter (if that's a word) or smarter than everyone else. Sadly, time proves us all wrong--just look at your old yearbook photo! At the same time, we often hold onto those generational things, clinging to the idea that it's the only way to be. My father, who kept his WWII GI haircut for the rest of his life, loved my husband like a son but could not get used to the idea that he wore a beard and a mustache. It was just wrong.

I think my psychologist friend's conclusion applies to big things as well as small ones. A generation forms ideas that sweep its inhabitants along, in politics, in social theory, in pretty much everything. Beliefs are based on current knowledge, shared events, and sometimes even ideas touted by popular figures. We can't help but soak them up, even if we don't believe it all or believe it as deeply as some.

It's sometimes hard to see larger effects in our own culture, but look at the generational differences in emerging nations. The young people in many countries, tuned into technology and such, demand changes in governments they find unfair. Why didn't their parents make those same demands? Their generation had a different idea of what was important. It's the shared beliefs of a generation that make changes possible.

Which brings us back to bad mystery plots, and here's my take on getting caught with a dead cell phone. If a person is of a generation that precedes the current age of instant connections, it's very possible that he'd forget to charge the battery. A younger person is much less likely to forget, because his generation demands that he be instantly available, even if it's just to say, "Nthg" when a friend texts, "Wt U doin?" So if the character is old, he didn't want that dumb cell phone in the first place; his kids bought it for him and insist he keeps it in his car. If he's under thirty, it's fully charged. Just have him drop it in a mud puddle.

The Will to Write

I wish I had a nickel for every person who's told me, "I'm going to write a book someday."
It's a harmless fantasy, and I'd guess that for every hundred who say that, one or two will actually do it. I'll leave the subject of publication for another post and consider actually writing the book that hovers in your mind.

It takes a great deal of will or initiative or whatever you call it to complete a book. The idea is there, and it's absolutely brilliant. It's that nasty time from in your head to on the page that kills most projects, why many give up after a chapter or two and most never even start.

The story won't go into motion. The characters hide among the words and won't show themselves the way you want them to. The plot doesn't thicken, or it thickens to the consistency of a cold glue stick. Those clever phrases that danced in your head in the idea stage become plodding dialogue and hackneyed prose as your fingers try to capture your interior brilliance.

The actual writing process requires force of will, and only the author's own hard work will do. That's why writing is a lonely profession: friends can admire, family can encourage, editors can demand, and publishers can tap their watches to warn of looming (or passed) deadlines, but only the author can summon the will to write, to keep writing, to finish.

Sometimes you apply the B.I.T.C.H. axiom (butt in the chair, honey!). Sometimes you give yourself quotas: so many words/day or pages/week. Sometimes you give yourself X amount of time off. And sometimes you write, write, write, even if it's wrong, wrong, wrong. Writing itself can restart the creative process, and you might find your way to something worthwhile.

So when people tell me, "I'm going to write a book someday," I smile and in all sincerity wish them luck with it. Luck is more for getting published than for writing, though. Writing takes will, as in "I will finish this book."

Love That Spouse, but I Wonder...

I have a minor degree in sociology, so I've studied behavior. Still, things my spouse does used to confuse me, even after many years of marriage.  Not being one to leave a problem unsolved, I applied my education and experience to the task. Based on my studies at the University of Michigan and forty-three years of cohabitation, I have formed some theories on spousal behavior. Granted, the sample is small. Your results might vary.

1) Empty plates in the refrigerator: He wants me to know he appreciates the food we have and to remind me that some of it has been eaten. It's time for more.
2) Squashed bugs on the kitchen floor. Like the trophies of old sketched on cave walls, these remind me that I have a strong male presence in my home. No need to fear the creepy crawlies.
3) Trimmed mustache hairs left in the sink. Again, a reminder of virility. I think I'm supposed to ignore the fact that they've turned gray. Still lots of them!
4) Shoes left where I am bound to trip over them. This one is subtle, but I figured it out. I'm supposed to notice the many paths he travels each day to keep me safe and secure. This is compounded by several different pairs: sandy sandals, muddy boots, and grass-caked tennis shoes.
5)  Mind-bending noises from various power tools. These can be irritating when I'm deep into a plot-knot, but they serve to remind me that while I'm up here playing, the work is getting done on the ground floor.

Understanding that my mate leaves these subtle clues as a way to reassure me of his function in our home is both comforting and educational, now that I've studied the behaviors and understand their purpose. I have yet to form an acceptable theory on why we can run the furnace all day every day in winter but have to ration air conditioning like it's spun gold. But I'm working on it.

Working Without THE Net

No blog post yesterday since the Net was down at my house. It wasn't the Russians, at least as far as I know. It's back today, which is sorta good, sorta not.
You see, there's this deadline looming, and I would be two hours into writing at this moment if I hadn't found that the Internet was back at my house this morning. That means some email, some YouTube, some Facebook, some...You get the idea.
The Net is wonderful; the Net is terrible. It helps me do all sorts of cool things, but often those cool things are NOT what I'm supposed to be doing. Helpful friends send me interesting stuff, and I delay getting to work in order to peruse, explore, and enjoy. It takes a willful effort to resist the temptations it offers, but I'm going to do it and go to work... Right now.

Make Time to Write or Write When The Time's Right?

It's hard for me to say whether I "need" to write or whether I simply need the time to do it. When things are normal and life is quiet, I generally write in the morning. As soon as I sit down to do it, the words come. But when something interrupts my schedule (usually Life with a capital "L"), writing moves to the back burner. Even if I try to snatch a few minutes' writing time in the swirl of events, nothing good results. It's like my brain shuts down in self-defense, leaving me resources to deal with reality.
On the other hand, when writing is foremost in my life, when I have a deadline or when the book is going well and I want to see how it ends, I find it hard to care about what's going on outside my head. A group of my friends are having lunch? I'll catch up with them next month. My husband's headed out to shop? I'll make him a list of what I want. At that point, all I can focus on is getting back to my "people" to help them figure out what's happening to them and why.
Another oddity is that one book doesn't usually intrude on another. I have three series going, but my mind is willing to focus on one at a time. Simon from the Tudor series doesn't knock at the door of my mind and insist on telling his next adventure. He's apparently willing to wait until I finish telling Loser's story.
I picture little compartments with labels like "Book #3 Dead Detective" or "Alumni Association" and even "worry about ---". The beauty of it is that only one door is open at a time.
That's a good thing. If it weren't the case, I'm pretty sure I'd be stark, raving, mad by now.