Sometimes, they make us bleed.

Some writing advice and a story about a woman in a dumpster.

Dear Reader,

Last week, I stopped, dropped, and rolled away from The Horrors and into a nail salon where a nice man let me soak my feet for five minutes before aggressively scrubbing dead skin from my heels. He didn’t nick me, for which I was thankful. Sometimes, they nick you. Sometimes, they make you bleed. Arizona air is dry. My feet are exposed because I am in sandals and flip-flops. When the pedicure finished, I walked back through the parking lot and passed a young woman in business casual perched on the edge of a dumpster like a raven. I used the scene as a prompt for my composition students, most of whom do not like to write and need to pass the class to move on to something else. Still though. They need participation points. I set the scene and then asked them what they thought she was doing. Their answers centered on loss. If you are subjecting yourself to the smells and sights of a dumpster (in Arizona, where if it is not hot, it always warm), the only rational explanation is that you are searching for something you no longer have.

In my brighter moments, when I can pull the parachute long enough to coast for a bit, I remind myself I have a novel coming out next year, a novel I have written and rewritten for almost 20 years. A novel whose early drafts got me into my MFA program (in all programs I applied to that year) and writing conferences. A novel who, in 2013, got me waitlisted for a Bread Loaf waiter scholarship. A novel I have taken apart for short stories (which you can read here and here) because I did not think it was a novel anymore. A novel 100% of agents queried said was a strong voice but no plot. A novel many many (many!) people who read it remarked the same thing: this girl has no agency. A novel I have buried and brought from the dead 110 times.

BURN is my longest and most fraught relationship. It taught me how to write. It taught me that every character should want something, sure. Everyone wants things. But what do they need? The running line in the text is the thing she wants, but the subtext under all the dialogue and body movements is what she needs. My girl Shannon wants attention from her best friend, from her roommate, from her “situationship” and from strangers in the bar. She needs her mother to believe her.

I’ll die on this hill, but I believe agency can be…fraught. A character will have things happen to them that are bad and awful and toxic and disgusting, but what they have done, with the utmost knowing of unknowing, is give in to the toxic cycle wrought upon by their family of origin. Yes. I’m suggesting that characters—I’m only talking characters, of course—live life within the emotional scaffolding built by the wounds of their parents. The bad feelings feel safe. Seeking toxicity becomes fulfilling. Fill your cup with bullshit and drink it up.

And on that note—family trauma—let’s end upbeat. Because when you’re writing—fiction, nonfiction, whatever—and you take readers to a dark place, it’s a great idea to give them something with which to pull themselves back up. Maybe it’s humor. Or maybe it’s something as simple as a dog. Maybe say fuck it, it makes no sense for a dog to be here but goddamn it, here’s a dog and we’re petting the dog because the dog is exactly what we need.

Yours in the blood of our characters,

Stephanie

Reading: I finished Shayne Terry’s Leave in two sittings. One sitting was in that nail salon, btw. Highly, highly recommend. I was excited for this book because I experienced a similar birth injury, but Shayne is a skilled writer who tells us her story through the lens of generational trauma. So yes. Injury and generational trauma? SIGN ME UP.

Listening: All in for Monica Lewinsky’s Renaissance

Watching: My daughter and I rewatched the Zombies movies on Disney this week. It’s a story about accepting people who are different and learning to love ourselves and extending empathy to others. Simpler times!