As any good Jewish person or FOJP (friend of Jewish Person) will tell you, the title above is the first of the four questions asked at Passover.  It was four questions that recently–and thankfully–changed the way I’ve been approaching my work in progress.

I’ve been working on this thing for a long time–almost two years.  Throughout, people have had problems with the narration.  I don’t want to go into it too explicitly, but basically, I was keeping the narrator’s identity a secret with a big reveal about it at the end.  Those who have read chapters have expressed confusion or even frustration about this, but I had always thought, “I can muscle through this.  I can see their objections, and I can work past them.”  This all changed last week when a friend read through the entire draft–one of about two people in the world to have done this, I think–and approached the problem in the manner of Passover: asking questions.

They were pretty simple questions, but they got to the heart of the matter: how would I sum up this story in one sentence?  Why was I keeping the narrator’s identity a secret?  What would I lose by changing that up?  In answering these questions, I realized that the whole secret narrator thing was, heartbreakingly, more of a device I was hanging on to than something that really served the story.  In fact, what I thought might be most important in the story had nothing to do with a mystery and was not at all about hidden identity.

I stress again that none of this should have been a huge revelation.  Just like Chazz Palminteri at the end of The Usual Suspects, I started hearing voices and seeing images of people saying the same–voices whose words I could remember with shocking clarity for conversations that happened quite a while ago.  Grad School Advisor Margaret: “I’m not saying it’s not working.  I’m saying it’s not working yet.”  Agent Elizabeth: “I’m not saying to give up on it.  But I am sounding an early warning.”  Critique group member Jen, over her frothy chai (okay, I’m making that part up; I don’t remember her beverage of choice): “I’m still not buying it.”  So–to throw in another question–why was my recent reader able to break through when these great responders–and they really are some of my favorites–couldn’t?

(By the way, I don’t mean to be cagey about the identity of the recent reader.  She’s one of the most amazing writers I’m privileged to know, and I’ve been in agony awaiting her first book, which comes out in the fall.  I just think she’d be a bit abashed at my naming her publicly, so I’ll call her Dane, a joke that I think she’ll enjoy.)

So anyway, why the great breakthrough with Dane?  Part of it, I think, is time; I sent her the second draft, so I’ve had time to live with this story for a while and murder many darlings already.  But more than that, I think there’s a power to asking questions rather than making statements.  Goodness knows I can be a statement-y person–so eager to convince the writer that my idea is the right one, I might just rush in and declare my insight.  However, this might not always be the right choice.  Dane didn’t assume she knew what was best for my novel, and I shouldn’t do that for other peoples’.

I hope to learn by example to open peoples’ work up to them.  In the meantime, I remain grateful for the four questions and also look forward to my mom’s customary Passover dessert come April.  But that, dear readers, is another story for another time.

I hazily remember that back when I used to work full-time, I used to do things like go into other peoples’ offices or classrooms to jabber when I needed a break.  I even remember a Catchy Jingles War with my boss Elizabeth, in which we’d wait until the other one stepped away from her desk, call each other up, and sing or whistle an annoyingly catchy tune–“I’d rather buy at PC [that’s PC Richards!” or “Can-can, Shop-Rite has the can cans!”  There was also the time that Angie and I plotted a hella bad April Fool’s Day prank that I couldn’t laugh about for a long time.  But it’s a good thing I have these memories, because when I do things like watch clips from the Fame movie during writing breaks, I don’t feel like such a lout.

I had a really good reason for watching Fame.  I needed a good poem quote about swimming for the big moment when Luke takes the plunge, and I found one from Walt Whitman–

Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.

This is so apropos you don’t even know it.  But then I thought, “Oh, ‘I sing the body electric’–just like that song from Fame!  I need to watch that.  And do you:

For those of you tragically not in the know, Fame was a masterpiece of 80s cinema.  It followed the lives of several students at the High School for the Performing Arts in NYC  and starred such luminaries as Irene Cara, the guy who played Rocket Romano on ‘er,’ a really cute cellist, and Debbie Allen. (“You’re going to work!  You’re going to sweat!”)  It got turned into a TV show that was on too late for me to watch (actually, the movie was too racy for me when it came out, too; it was only in later years that I rented it)–but everybody knew the songs (I think we sang them at day camp), and

everybody wanted to go to The Fame School.  It’s probably a good thing I didn’t get to watch the movie when I was little, or there’d have been much I was freaked out about, but the singing and dancing were great!

And “I sing the body electric” is such a great number, too.  I hope that one day WordPress will allow inset commentary a la Mystery Science Theatre, because there’s so much I need to say about this one.  F’rinstance:

-did someone tell everybody except the black kids who get the falsetto duet not to have any expression when they sing, a la 90% of high school students?  These guys look totally divorced from the awesome emotional content of their song.  It’s hilariously realistic.

-Mr. Shorofsky!  The coolest non-crusty teacher ever!  I wonder what happened to him?

-The dancing during the rocking-out portion–is that considered ballet?  It’s kind of just people picking each other up, albeit in really cool combos.  I eagerly await a balletomane’s opinion.

-Look at that thin, wide camera!  I’d totally forgotten about those!

-The guy they focus on during the line, “I toast to my own reunion–my own reunion” looks like the one who plays Big Love on Season 4 of House!  I’m sure he was in diapers when this came out, so maybe it was his Papa?

Oh, and.  I just found the TV theme song so I could share that with you, too, and I think some serious Fame watching is going to need to commence.  (I wonder if Wild and Woolly Video carries it?)  I haven’t seen it in years, but I have no doubt that it beats the dance-belt off of Glee, which, I’m sorry, is the most heartbreaking misuse of  story ever.  And hello, Janet Jackson and Michael Cerveris are in this?  Why didn’t anybody tell me?

One final note: watching  the credits of multi-racial kids, all struggling to rock out and fit in actually reminds me of my work in progress!  I’m sure that in some episode, there’s some Fame equivalent to the aforementioned Luke, doing something similar to swimming with his shirt off.  Yes!  This was not a totally loutish digression after all.

Remember my name–Fame!

Having long admired fellow mid-souther Shelli Johannes Welles’s blog, Market My Words, I am a bit agog to find myself on it.  (Well, I answered the interview questions; I can’t be that surprised.)  So if you still have a yen to hear my thoughts, you can head on over there to see what I said.   More importantly, though, you can read the other entries and pick up marketing tips! 

In other news, I went to The ALA C onference (American Library Association) this weekend in DC, and it was awesome!  I can’t wait to post pics and share tales.  Preview: teens weighing in about YALSA picks; book-cart drill team; Will Shortz.

I also look forward to telling you about how I’m seriously considering killing of one of my characters (meaning editing her out, not killing her in the book) and how great that will be if it’s the right choice.  But I must return to said manuscript and reread in its entirety today, so back to’it, missy!

I’ve noticed something recently.  Both of the last two weeks, I’ve absolutely gotten obsessed with a single song.  We’re talking humming the song obsessively to the dear wife.  We’re talking 19 on the playcount within a few days.  Last week’s was Ingrid Michaelson’s Everybody, and this week, it’s “Wagon Wheel,” by Bob Dylan and Old Crow Medicine Show.

Everybody, everybody wants to love…

So rock me, mama, like the wind and the rain:

The more interesting thing I noticed was that each seemed to be an absolute driving force in what my characters were going through in my draft of The Book of the Dead.  Ingrid Michaelson sings about how everybody, everybody wants to love, and everybody, everybody wants to be loved–and it’s so true. 

We’re not just motivated by the desire to be loved (the more obvious one); we also want something to love.  We want to find someone worthy of our love, so badly that we imbue them with all sorts of noble qualities, and it’s so painful when they let us down that we often turn a blind eye, or create absurd explanations.  Or we want to love an activity so much that when we can’t pursue it the way we want to, we’ll bend all sorts of dimensions, including common sense and kindness, to make it go the way we want. 

That was last week.  Last week, my characters were falling in love all over the place.  This week, things are going kind of sucky for them, and what do they want?  To be rocked.  Rock me, mama, like the wind and the rain; rock me, mama, like a south-bound train.  Hey-ey, mama, rock me now.  The love is on a fast course to crashing, and they need a little comfort.

If all goes well with my writing next week, things will go even worse for the characters.  I can’t think what song will be adequate.  Something with lots of screaming.  Anybody know a song of loud, horrible, pained agony?  Something by Kurt Cobain, maybe, except not the Tori Amos cover of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”  That’s the song I’ll play as everybody surveys the wreckage. 

Do you have any songs you’ve listened to obsessively during any particular period, of creativity or just life?  (I vaguely remember KJL’s obsession with a certain song senior year of college, something with ‘ocean’ in the title or band name…Who am I thinking of?)

Research is not, as I said the other day, funny.  Research is dangerous.

First of all, I have this habit of putting food in my novels that is way too delicious.  In two separate stories–one, Nice and Mean; the other, one called Not That Girl that may someday be unleashed to the world–I prominently featured doughnuts.  Every time M and E would make up, or J, M, Z and B would gather at the shopping center, I would have to stand by and watch while they stuffed their mouths with chocolately, cakey goodness and try not to care that I didn’t–and shouldn’t–have any in my house.  It was particularly rough when M wiped the extra glaze off the wax paper and then ate it.  That’s what I would do!

Then there was–and is; in contrast to the doughnut scene, this part made it into Nice and Mean–the matter of ravioli.  There’s an important scene in which Marina and Sachi eat ravioli.  I love ravioli!  Marina accidentally pours too much parmesan onto hers (I seriously hope this does not count as a spoiler), but I would eat it like that anyway.  I think they’re eating peas at the same time…I love peas with my ravioli!  Every time I’d revise that scene, I’d be tempted with the prospect of a ravioli lunch, and let me tell you, there is a lot more fat in ravioli, even cheese ravioli, than you realize. 

But now I think I’ve taken the cake for myself–or even, ha ha, the Cakesters.  In my camping story, workingly titled The Book of the Dead, some genius sent my characters Oreo Cakesters.  It’s important how many come in a pack, so just now (before lunch, I might add), I went online to find out and ended up having to look at this website:

http://www.nabiscoworld.com/oreo/cakesters/

Why can’t they just have the info without pictures?  It’s so mean and tempting.  Now I want Cakesters, and I should not be having Cakesters!  (I don’t mean to make this blog another lament along the lines of Women and Food Denial, but I very much doubt that most peoples’ healthy eating plans include regular consumption of Cakesters, especially in the middle of the afternoon.) 

So I may be on the verge of deciding that I should forgo research–or at least, internet research on food.  I am just going to make up all my facts from now on.  Even if I need to learn how long it takes yeast for yeast to rise–too bad!  I don’t want to be tempted with images of fresh-baked bread.  They may be making their own veggie burgers from a mix, but I will just have to imagine the finished product, thank you very much (okay, maybe some people would balk at the idea of mix-made veggie burgers, but at this moment, when no peas or ravioli have crossed my path recently, I am finding it quite tempting.)  If my subconscious is going to keep throwing tempting items into my stories, the least I can do is resist further temptation.  And if I put errors in my story in the process, who cares?  Wouldn’t you rather have me wrong than expiring of a heart attack before completing this novel?  I would.  Thank you. 

ps I am sorry if I tempted you with the pretty pictures here.  I had to get them out of my system.  Of course, now they are in my system.  Hm. 

pps It has been pointed out to me that I have not really made good on my tagline.  Consider this a love song to cake…a song of the broken-hearted.

You’ve got to love when you do an image search to check your understanding of a Pulaski (everybody’s favorite tool–axe and pick in one) and you come upon this:

instead of this:

This is the second time I’ve had a laugh on behalf of Casimir Pulaski, a Polish hero of…something or other.  I’d tell you more about it, but you’d probably think it was silly and agree with me that you had to be there.

If you have any stories of resarch snafus, however, or, indeed, tales of Casimir Pulaski, feel free to share.