Naked on the Page

Warning: Explicit Language Below


One of the elemental rules of crafting story dictates that a protagonist must grow or change as a direct result of the story's action. I guess it could also be argued that the protagonist could choose *not* to change as a result of the story's action, as well. Still, shit happens, or you don't have a story.

In order to transport a reader into the story world and hold them there, the story's movement must also result in some incremental and potentially dramatic shift in your character's sense of self awareness as she struggles to reset her world's equilibrium.

I swear to you that I would never dare to soil the field of women's literature with another tired plot revolving around a middle-aged love triangle. (Yawn. Lived it, don't want to read about it) However, an episode of same-sex marital infidelity does provide the fuel that sets my protag's journey into the realm of the (mostly) dead into motion.

As of yesterday's revisions, my protag had not yet realized yet that her competition for her husband's affection is another man. I kind of dreaded returning to the scene, because during the original draft, my words felt "episodic", and the character's reactions to her plight wooden.

During the rewriting, the most amazing thing happened. Lo and behold, my main character's prissy little personality decided to dig in to the plot and pull her own weight. That stuck-up garden party belle stood up off the page and taught herself how to cuss. She'd have done any sailor proud, too.

Watching the little lady perform represented one of those moments when it felt as if I was taking dictation as opposed to writing fiction. You see, there are just some words that a woman of a certain age and upbringing will not allow to soil her fair lips, but my protag broke all of her former rules of decorum as she prepared to catch her husband and her competetion "en flagrante"...

(Dear God, please tell me my Mom doesn't read blogs...the hot flashes, yes, we'll blame it on those...)

excerpt:

...Then, I remembered that I wasn’t dressing for a dinner date. It could well be that trail of years stretching out behind me and Byron would go for naught by the end of this day.

Tears sprang to my eyes when I realized that I was donning armor for the fight of my life.

"That two-bit trollop,” I cursed. Somehow, my choice in swear words didn’t feel quite as vindicating as I’d hoped.

“That hussified jezebel,” I tried again.

Nope, not quite the word I was looking for.

“Fuck?”

No way, I thought. I’ve already used that word. Twice.

“CUNT,” I dared.

Oops. Now there’s a word. Outwardly, I recoiled in shock, lest Momma roll over in her grave.

But if the word fits…

“Just who the hell does that cunt think she is, moving in on my life? Over my fucking dead body!"

“There,” I said as I topped my ash blonde chignon with a black straw hat whose broad brim boasted a discrete sprinkling of linen flowers. “Cunt was exactly the word I was looking for.”

Momma would just have to get over it...

Back to the first rule of fiction--the protagonist must grow or change as a result of the story's action. Hmmmm. The belle formerly known as the lady with the stick up her backside says the dread C word. In doing so, the reader might actually BELIEVE it when she rebels against the status quo and breaks every single one of the rules of Deadiquette.

I think we're getting somewhere. Its about (fucking)time.

*please excuse the lack of italics when presenting the characters internal dialogue above. Blogger beta sucks toads and seems to be refusing to do its job of recognizing html 101.

**If you're thinking of switching to Blogger beta, don't. At least not yet. I can't comment on original Blogger blogs without making up a whole new identity, and folks on the old Blogger can't comment on mine most of the time. Its getting quite lonely out here in beta land...

***if the blogger beta police come after me as a result of my public blasphemy, please send cakes with embedded hacksaws to starmuse23@gmail.com