Search for the Throughline

I'm on the hunt.

This is always the way my stories evolve.  I have a nebulous throughline.  As the characters become real people with real lives and real decisions to make, the throughline changes.  It's like "Alice" from the Twilight series.  Her visions are subjective; they change.  Oh dear, now you know I've read Twilight.  Well, it is a crossover book, you know!  Anyway, the throughline for Amber is fuzzy. 

When I write a throughline, I begin very simply.  A character wants something and has trouble getting it.  What does Amber want?  She wants her best friend back.  Madison.  They've been together forever.  Their moms went to college together.  They have lived across the street from each other since birth.  Until now.  Until the "F" bomb was dropped in Amber's family's living room.  Foreclosure.

Is that enough to keep the action going?  I don't think so.  That is a secondary throughline.  So, what is the main storyline?  What does Amber want?  I was also thinking perhaps she wants to go to Camp Seymour.  It's a common destination for 5th graders in Western Washington.  A trip to camp happens in October (or sometime in the beginning of the school year.)  It is a celebration for making it to the top class of elementary school.  Or something like that.  Really, it's an excuse to play outdoors for a week.  But Amber can't go.  Her family is cutting back.  But they make too much money for the scholarship.  And her dad won't take charity.  So, perhaps the "desire" for Amber is to attend Camp Seymour.  But since she can't, she decides to make her own Camp Seymour?  On Rattlesnake Ridge.

Now some scenes are forming.  Now there is a reason for her to be in the woods.  But... there's the but. 

Amber WANTS to camp outside in the woods, but her parents forbid it.  Will they notice she's gone, though?  With their money problems and Daddy's work review coming up and the three-year-old twins, Bailey and Brady, adjusting to apartment life? 

What if Amber suspects her parents are making up the "thing in the woods" story just to scare her and her friend, Jack, out of sleeping in the woods overnight?  She wouldn't hesitate to do what she wants.  She is that kind of person.  Close a door.  She'll climb through a window. 

One night in the woods. 
It won't kill her. 
Or will it?

:-)

Happy Writing,
Rachel

Let's Pretend...

My 6-year-old daughter is always playing pretend.  I can't tell you the number of leggings she has worn holes in by scooting around the house pretending to be a horse, dog, kitten, or you-fill-in-the-blank.  Sometimes she asks me to play with her.  Her games always begin with, "Pretend _________!" 

Pretend this picture was printed in the Meadow Creek Reporter, the local newspaper circulated in the fictional town in my new book, Finders Keepers. 

Would you want your child playing in the woods? 

Happy Reading,
Rachel

Children Writers

“The difference between school and life? In school, you’re taught a lesson and then given a test. In life, you’re given a test that teaches you a lesson.”
- Tom Bodett


I'll never forget the time, although I've forgotten (or blocked out) her name, when a 3rd grade teacher told me I couldn't use my voice in my writing.  She was a progressive type of teacher and was implementing something new called Writer's Workshop.  We had practiced 'brainstorming' and 'prewriting' and I was well into my draft when I was called to conference with her.  Of course, I was only aware that these pedagogical practices were new and edgy because she told us so.  I had not had a clue who Donald Graves was or that there was a thing called The Writing Process before she spelled the words out in magic markers on a flip chart.  All I knew was that I loved to play pretend and that sometimes those imaginary friends turned into drawings and those drawings turned into stories.  And stories were how I felt my way around my universe.  Like Helen Keller reaching out with her fingertips to see, my stories were my way of making sense of the world. 

So when this nameless third grade teacher armed with her new-found writing process tackled my carefully drawn draft, I fought back.  Because this was my story to tell, I was the author.  "You can't do that."  She told me, pointing at a sentence.  "Why?"  I asked.  I wasn't trying to be difficult then.  I really was trying to understand why I couldn't say what I wanted to say how I wanted to say it to tell the story that needed telling.  Why?  "Well, because it's not correct grammar."  She wisely pointed out.  "You can only do that if it's in quotation marks."  She continued.  I remember this so vividly.  "Because if it's in quotation marks that is what someone is saying and what people say doesn't always follow the grammar rules."

Exactly.

Teachers.  Let your students SAY SOMETHING through their writing.  And let it be not-grammatically-correct.  I know, I know.  Common Core.  Hey, when I was teaching it was the EALRs.  Essential Academic Learning Requirements.  All I'm saying is, maybe have a time when it is safe and, heck, maybe even expected for them to break the rules.  If you want voice, stop editing them before they say what needs to be said.  More, you have to teach them not to self-edit.  To be brave enough to say what is buried.  For some of us, it's buried in a shallow ditch, like a tulip bulb.  Just beneath the surface and ready to bloom.  For others of us, what needs to be said is at the bottom of a hoard of memories.  And it takes a lot of sorting trash to get at the treasure.  Because that's what writing is always about.  Getting to the treasure.  The truth.  All of us know something someone else doesn't. 

That is what will make you marvel at what a child writer has given you.  Not the most glorious seven sentence paragraph. 

Their truth.

An Excerpt from Finders Keepers...

From my new book, Finders Keepers:  



    BWOOP! Went the siren the day her dad was pulled over. They were all in the car, all five of them. Amber, her mom, her dad, and the twins, Bailee and Brady. They were only babies then. Amber was seven. 

“Oh, Sean!” Amber’s mom moaned. Her dad said a bad word and pulled to the side of the road. Amber immediately forgave him.

         “License and registration.” The police officer demanded.  Amber watched the man watch her daddy. She knew he was with the good guys. But she didn’t like him. Not one bit. Her mom shuffled papers in the glove compartment and finally handed a folded up paper to her dad.
        “Texas license, huh?” The policeman eyeballed her dad. “Just move here?”

“Yes, sir.” Her dad said. “Last week.”

         “Beautiful weather for it.” The police officer said, and Amber didn’t know but thought he must be joking. The skies were gray and she hadn’t seen the sun since they’d left the oven heat of Texas.
        “Well, you were going 50 in a 30.” The officer said, handing her dad the little plastic card and folded up paper. “You gotta be careful on this road. We got deer. Bear. And there’s the Children’s Center.” 
        They all looked at the post on the side of the road. It held up a green sign with white lettering that read: Echo Glen Children’s Center. 
       “What’s a Children’s Center?” Amber asked from the back seat after the whole ordeal was over and they were almost to her Grandma’s house in Seattle. The sun poked through the clouds and stabbed the skyline ahead of them. The city. She hated the city.  It was all dirty and noisy and smelled like pee. Thank goodness they hadn't moved there. 
       “I don’t know.” Her dad said.
       “Maybe it’s a daycare.” Her mom said, hopefully. “Or a preschool.” 
       “That would be nice.” Her dad said. “See? We’re going to love Meadow Creek Ridge. It’s a great place to raise a family.” 
       “I know, Sean.” Her mom said, like they’d had this discussion a million and one times. “I’ll have to check it out.” 
       Then the babies started crying and traffic came out of nowhere, making her dad say more bad words (for which Amber forgave him… again.) And everybody forgot about the Echo Glen Children’s Center. Until three years later when the helicopters whirred overhead day and night. And in kitchens throughout the safe neighborhood of Meadow Creek Ridge, parents huddled with their children and muttered, “That poor, poor girl.”

What Every Author Who Has Children Needs

Right?