On Body Language

About a few weeks ago, my husband and I were at Lowe's shopping for a washer/dryer. We were looking at some of the models I'd pre-researched online and the sales associate came to help us. She wasn't pushy and she was really knowledgeable about her machines. She was really friendly and didn't push one machine over another, but she did spend the time to point out pros/cons of one model's design over another's or was quick to mention when one was a new (therefore unreviewed) model of a trusted line.

Then we went to a showroom that was kind of like a warehouse for appliances. Again, here was a nice sales associate who was knowledgeable. He pointed out slightly different things when comparing the models and Craig and I, using what we learned, made the best informed decision. Overall, it was a pleasant experience.

However, there was a distinct difference in the body language of salesgirl vs salesguy. Aleisha naturally spoke to the two of us, making eye contact and continually shifting focus between me and Craig. She was also good about keeping her body angle in such a way that she was facing both of us at the same time, not just one or the other.

On the other hand, Marty the sales guy, would talk more to Craig. Quite a few times, Craig actively shifted the conversation to me. And when I had some questions or concerned, I could tell that Marty was surprised I was the one who asked (like my request to see the machine's manual).  He spent most of his time making eye contact with Craig and his body position was facing Craig. A couple of times, Marty turned his back to me while explaining something or demonstrating a feature - more than once I found myself moving closer to Craig so that he was facing, and speaking, to both of us.

The difference in body language was subtle, but it was there.

WIP - (Fission and Fusion - Mei)

The following text is part of a piece of fiction I'm currently working on. If you want to see more of it, +1 , comment, or share. This is more like a vignette than a short story or chapter. Maybe the beginning of a chapter...

           There was never enough light in the room. But after fourteen years, she didn’t need the light. She efficiently slipped out of her pajamas and into the simple pantsuit she’d laid out the night before on the small dresser at the foot of her bed. With a flick of her wrist and a plump of the pillow, her bed was made and she silently made her way to the door and slipped out onto the six by five strip of linoleum tile that functioned as a hallway. One step to the linen closet on her left. Two steps away was the closed door to her son’s room. A third step would bring her to a six by six square space that held a simple shower converted from a bathtub, a western toilet, and a small wall mirror that hung over a pedestal sink.

            Muscle memory had her turning right to step into the living room. Her slippered feet barely registered the difference as linoleum made way to industrial carpeting, then back to linoleum. Here, in this apartment, there was no wall to separate the living area from the areas where one sleeps or eats.  Instead, you had to look at the floors, or the strategic placement of furniture, to see where one room ended and another began.  Perhaps she should be grateful that they had the luxury of different spaces for eating and sleeping.

            She made her way to the dilapidated pressed wood and vinyl dining table to pick up the single plate, teacup, and fork that was left there.  She shuffled into the kitchenette where she quickly washed the errant dishes and put some water into a small sauce pot to boil. Then, she took the four steps to the sideboard where the teapot was nestled in its basket. The remaining tea in the teapot was still tepid, but it wouldn’t be proper to keep it. She poured the pot down the sink before breaking small chunk off of the tea brick and adding to the leaves that were still in the pot. The leaves weren’t at that stage where they needed to be changed just yet. And it really didn’t matter as very few guests crossed the threshold, but propriety and traditional hospitality dictated that a pot of tea be kept ready. As steam rose from the pot and tiny bubbles began to cling to the stainless steel sides, Mei turned off the flame and deftly brought the saucepot to teapot. The scent of strong pur-reh

            She then reached behind the sugar canister to retrieve the packet made from meticulously folded facial tissue paper. There, nestled in the folds were a handful of tablets and capsules that she’s supposed to take for her health. One for blood pressure, one for her cholesterol, and a handful for everything else that was ailing her at the moment. Dutifully, she took them, chasing each one with a swallow of water, wrinkling her nose as the bitter uncoated tablets touched her tongue.

            It wasn’t long before she heard the knock on the door. Her other son was at the door, dropping off the child. They exchanged their usually pleasantries as he walked in, carrying the still sleeping girl in his arms.  He gently transferred her onto the couch. Impervious to the rough fabric or the firmness of the seats, she continued sleeping. Her son then left, with the usual mumblings of when he and his wife will come take the girl again. The actual words may be different from day to day, but the sentiment is always the same.

            Leaving the sleeping child, she shuffled back into the kitchen to prepare the morning meal. Taking the same pot she’d used earlier to boil water, she put in a measure of rice and proceeded to triple wash it as her mother had taught her.  Back in China, she’d have a proper pot, made of simple clay and steel wire, for cooking rice like this. But she’d learned how to make do. The cling-clang of the flimsy lid told her that the rice was now at the first boil. As she reduced the heat on the burner with one hand, the other reached toward the plastic Tupperware her son had brought with him, containing the piece of squab marinating in soy and ginger. With a deftness that belied her age, the meat and marinade was added to the cooking rice.

            Minutes passed as the aromas of the cooking bird and rice began to fill the apartment. Mei scowled as she adjusted the flame one more time, getting the cooking process to slow down just a little, so that it would be ready once the child wakes up. She shuffled back into the living room as there wasn’t anything else to do now, but wait. As she paced the length of the room – thirteen paces one way, thirteen another – she looked on the child, sprawled unseemingly on her stomach on the couch – and scowled further. She didn’t understand the whole point of this ritual. The girl wouldn’t amount to anything, considering the child’s mother. The only thing the girl was a testimony to was that she, Mei, was right to disapprove of the union. The chit couldn’t even give her son a son of his own, and denied her a grandson.

            But this was America. And in America, things were different. Here, it doesn’t matter if you’re the family Matriarch. Here, your sons leave the family house just like a daughter would. Mei scowled. Here, girls are cherished as much as boys.

            Mei went back into the kitchen tend to the rice, mixing it and fluffing it. Satisfied, she proceeded to fill a bowl with the tender grains and topped it with the pieces of bird. She brought out the bowl and placed it on the dining table with a pair of bamboo chopsticks that should have been too big for the little hands.

            Without being called, the child shambled to the table and climbed up the chair and proceeded to attack the bowl with a voraciousness that was more appropriate for a son. Mei then made her way back into the kitchen, and transferred the remaining rice into a bowl for herself before adding a cup of water into the pot to loosen the bits of crust stuck to the bottom. She leaned against the counter as she picked at the bowl with her chopsticks, savoring the rice. At least it was an improvement over the white rice and fermented bean curd she would be eating if she’d not had the child to cook for. Mei scowled at the thought that she should be grateful for a girl child’s leftovers.

            Between bites of her own food, Mei checked the softening rice crust, taking a moment to scrape down the sides and bottom to loosen it further. She then went to retrieve the girl’s bowl where a few morsels of rice remained.  Into the bowl went the watery gruel from the pot.  She shook her head and scowled with disdain. This slop was only good for dogs and servants. Her lips pursed tightly as she remembered the days when all she had was this gruel made from bland white rice.  She’d be lucky if the family she was cleaning for allowed her some soy sauce or fermented daofu to flavor it.

            When the bowl was returned to the child, she dug in with gusto, gulping the broth and shoveling the still crunchy bits of toasted rice into her tiny mouth with as much grace as any peasant. Stupid girl. Perhaps it is fitting that she likes it.

            Shortly after the child finished her morning meal, and Mei had cleaned up and put away the dishes and the pot, the bedroom door opened and her husband, clad from neck to toe in his pajamas, would shuffle from the room to the bathroom. Eventually, he would come out into the kitchen and make a cup of tea from the bags held in the yellow and red box with the bak-guai prominently displayed, sipping from a western style cup.  He would drink it like them too, with sugar and milk.

             Mei went into the room, as she did every day, and straightened up her husband’s bed. She didn’t bother to open the curtains, but rather made the bed and plumped his pillow in the same manner that she’d done for hers.  She then gathered the clothes he’d strewn on the floor or the bed and meticulously folded them, placing them on his dresser where he’ll use them again when he went out tonight; as he did every night.  When she stepped back into the living room, the child was standing on the sofa, chattering away at him in a hodgepodge of Chinese and that infernal American tongue.  He smiled at her and she gleefully hopped before settling down into the seat and turned her attention to the large screen that was now alive with lights and sounds.

            The moving pictures of people, jumping up and down in unbridled joy were accompanied with bells, flashing lights, and confetti. Occasionally, a screen would be pulled away to reveal cars, or the machines that made life easier; a large refrigerator, stove, or a washing machine. Sometimes, the pictures were those of beautiful places with gold sand, clear water, and tall trees. She scowled as numbers in the hundreds and thousands flashed across the screen, a testimony to the luck bestowed on undeserving lo-fan and hak-guai that appeared on the show.

            Mei settled into her chair, a beat-up construct of coarse fabric and wood with sagging cushions that offered little support. She was tired of pacing, but not able to do anything else for the time being. And so she stared at the picture box, watching the people get excited about cars, vacuums, and a spinning wheel of color.

            He went to the door and retrieved the newspaper that was delivered without fail, then reclaimed his place in his recliner. Still nursing his tea, he lit a cigarette, unfurled the rolled up newsprint and proceeded to scan through then. The child said something, and smiling, he pull out a section – the one with drawn pictures – and gave it to the girl who promptly spread the filthy pages on the floor so she can see it all, just like him. Mei couldn’t hide her disdain as she glared at the stupid child. The chit could not read, yet pretends. If only those words were characters, Mei thought to herself, I’d be able to decipher their contents, unlike the ignorant child. But her husband preferred the American news.

            The child eventually grew tired and climbed up into the sofa again, falling asleep as she the stared at the moving pictures, as he puffed away on his cigarette and nursed his second cup of tea. Hours would pass as the picture box droned on and on and on, until the child would wake and immediately turn to her grandfather and excitedly ask him something. Smiling at her excitement, he meticulously exchanged his indoor slippers for his walking shoes, and made a motion for the child to get hers. She could slip them on, but he would always make sure the Velcro or laces were tied tight. Finally, he would light a fresh cigarette before taking the girl’s hand and walking out of the apartment, letting the door close behind them.

            Mei reveled in the silence as she shut off the machine. Taking her time, she moved about the room, opening windows to let in some fresher air, picking up the discarded newspapers and folding them the best she could, taking the tea cup with the remaining dregs to the sink where she washed, dried, and put it away with practiced efficiency. She heard the door open and shut again; the sounds of careless footsteps crossing the rough carpet followed by the squeak on the linoleum, and then the rattle of the loose, flimsy doorknob as it was turned. The careless thunk of her younger son’s bedroom door being kicked closed, followed by the rhythmic thumping of music being unsuccessfully muffled by the thin walls, told her that he was home.

            With the day dwindling, she brought out the vacuum, turning it on and was comforted by the constant, loud hum as she passed it over the thin, rough carpets, worn from the years of use. The carpet was pragmatic choice of the landlord’s; having chosen a heavy industrial one in a brown that would look the same after years at it did when it was installed. Mei passed the vacuum over a patch of carpet that had a spill just a couple of days ago. Careless chit. The stain was barely noticeable. Water, soap, and hard scrubbing would take out some of the stains, but would just as likely bring up dirt trapped in the thin padding underneath. 

           

            From the corner of her eye, Mei saw the door open and the child bound in ahead of her grandfather, clutching a new treasure in her grubby little paws. Mei shut off the vacuum and put it away. When she joined them again, she bit her tongue as she saw that the child had a new coloring book and a handful of crayons.  The spot of soy sauce on the child’s dress, the smattering of crumbs, and the large Styrofoam cup next to the child was enough for Mei to know that she wouldn’t need to prepare a mid-day meal for them. Her husband then gathered up his hat and jacket, then left again, lighting up another cigarette with the Bic he kept on the side table near his chair.

            Before too long, her elder son would knock on the door, respectfully nodding to her has she answered, letting him in. After some pleasantries, he gathered the child and her belongings before whisking out the door, needing to pick up his wife from the nearby garment factory as they let out their workers for the day. Mei shuffled back into the kitchen and prepared a simple meal from the leftovers of three dinners past, heating it in the contraption that was plugged into the wall near the far side of the table. As she pulled out the warmed up bowl of rice and saucer of seasoned gai lan, her younger son emerged from his room, made a beeline for the door, and was gone as swiftly and unexpectedly as he appeared.

            She slowly ate her meal in silence, and took care to tidy up after herself, wiping down the table, the counters, and finally the sink when she finished. She reached behind the sugar canister again and found the evening packet of pills her husband had left for her, taking them as she had taken the ones in the morning. The bitterness of the uncoated tablets was not noticeable as she took these with the sweetened orange drink that her husband always buys. She checked the doors, making sure that each of the three locks are secure, and leaving at least one lamp on, shuffles into the bedroom. There, she pulls a set of clothes from her husband’s closet and lays them out the foot of the bed on the side he doesn’t sleep on. She follows with her own clothes, folding them and laying them neatly on her dresser at the foot of the firm twin she calls her own, before donning her sleepwear.

            Leaving the dim lamp on by her husband’s bed, Mei slipped under her covers, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep.

On Race

The other day, as I was working on the novel, I was debating on the merits of including race - Elves, dwarves, snake people, etc that are are human-like, very Tolkien and D&D. Yesterday, I read a blog post by a fellow Fantasy author, Marshal Ryan Maresca, talking about the difficulties of including race in fantasy and sci-fi. But it's not your typical Fantasy Race distinctions, but Race as subcatagories of humans. 

In his post, he only touched upon the topic in terms of clarity and description, avoiding the deep-seeded cultural, societal, and emotional baggage that comes with Race and Race issues.   He goes on and describes two characters in an exercise to describe racial traits... and I immediately saw a reinforcement of American societal "norms" in terms of race - the light skinned, light haired, light eyed character gets an easier time because he can pass for "local." To that, I'd like to point you to the follow YouTube satire that captures the sentiment of race/ethnicity and "local normal" sentiments.

And then there was racist, vitriolic reaction when Miss New York, a woman of Indian descent who was born in the US and grew up in New York, won the Miss America 2014 title. Many of the people who were outraged felt that Miss Kansas - tattooed blond beauty who is in the National Guard and hunts is more representative of "American" than the dark-skinned "foreigner."

So, authors, when you're considering race in your work, take a deep pause and research the loaded history of racism and ask yourself if you want to give your world that amount of cultural depth. If you are writing a world where race doesn't matter anymore, take an example from Suzanne Collins. She did a really good job of it in Hunger Games when Katniss meets and describes the District 11 tributes - Rue and Thresh, who are black. But even though you describe a character as dark skinned, your readers my picture the character totally unlike how you pictured her, as evident by the racist reaction to how Rue was cast in the movie. 

Also, writers, be cognizant of your word choice and connotation when describing physical features that has racial tones.  You may be reinforcing racial "norms" of your society, undercutting it (what if dark-skinned was the norm and light-skinned was the "other"?), or attempting to show that race is no longer an issue for a culture/society (often seen in "future" settings).

Writers, ask yourself - what purpose does race have in my work? If I have race, do I need to include racism and what purpose does it have in my world?


Here's more food for thought -

 What if Captain America was a Sikh man?

How do you deal with race in your work? Do all Humans look the same? Do all Humans enjoy the same ranks/privileges, etc despite the differences in their physical features? Does the racial norms, hierarchies, and [insert colored/racial majority here] privilege exist? How do you react as a reader when you see it in others' works?

On Character Development

Today I managed to do several character sketches to prep for my NaNo project. On a break, I checked out this article pertaining to a school assignment focusing on a child's development. In the article, it describes an assignment were children (with their parent's permission) were to venture out on their own to tackle a task that they wanted to tackle - taking the bus by himself, going to the store by herself, trying something new, preparing his own food for the first time, - tackle it, then write about it.

Reading the excerpts from the kids' essays were inspiring. The kids were taking their first steps to become independent adults - pushing their own boundaries and comfort zones, their awe and wonderment of that "I did it!" moment, and the pride and growing confidence in knowing they can accomplish something.

With that in mind, I'm revisiting the character sketches of my primary characters (and if I have time, my secondary characters) and adding developmental background information that mirrors the developmental markers of people in general -

• First time they accomplished something they didn't know they could do
• First time they accomplished something they struggled to do
• First time they failed at something they thought would be easy
• The biggest failure that resonates with them
• First time the character experienced a sense of loss
• Any lasting rivalries with another character
• Fears (and explain the origins of the fears)

I know that some of these "first" or landmark incidents could happen during your story. Sometimes, the 2nd or 3rd "fail" is the one that resonates with a character the most. I expect very few of these scenes/markers to make their way onto the pages of the main story, but it will go a long way in explaining why a person is a wallflower, or why they always have to make sure everyone is safe, why they notice the littlest details (ala Monk's OCD) and how that can be a flaw.  

How do you develop your characters? What thoughts drive you or inspire you? 

On the Strong Female Character

I just read an article where an author explained why she hated the Strong Female Character. In her article, she talks specifically about the SFC as portrayed in movies, but the arguments translate into story writing in general -

The Strong Female Character falls into one or more of these pit traps:

• many times one dimensional
• is also the token female
• easily becomes a caricature of "strength"
• is still marginalized in the big picture
• is an exception rather than the norm, subtly reinforcing sexism. 
• is still delegated to the role of male main's love interest
• still needs to be rescued

The main characters that we know and love are not merely Strong. They are complex and dimensional.

While the author, Sophia McDougal, writes about the many examples of where the SFC just doesn't work, I'd like to take the time to show examples of how some authors/writers/producers/directors did it right.

Joss Whedon's Firefly series:
The SFC isn't extraordinary, but the norm in the society. The ratio of female to male characters - 4:5
All of the female characters are multi-dimensional and strong in their own way.

• Kaylee - the best mechanic one can find. She's essentially a savant when it comes to ships and engines, but she's a girly girl at heart and painfully shy. She's portrayed as emotionally vulnerable and has a crush on a man that is emotionally unavailable. 
• Zoe: Tough-as-nails second in command. Super loyal and is a soldier who managed to survive a war where she's seen many of her friends killed. She follows orders, even if it's against her better judgement. Very calm, clear headed and methodical. There's a softness in her character that is hinted at since she's married to Wash. He serves as reminder that there is a certain amount of depth to Zoe that we don't normally see since the rest of the crew (and the audience) sees her hardened exterior 90% of the time. 
• Inara: A professional Companion (think Geisha), she's the epitome of willowy strength. She leases one of the Serenty's shuttles and take occasionally takes on clients (done off screen) as part of her trade. She's part of the Serenity, but is independent of her crew, giving them a veneer of credibility. Her strength is in her business reputation, her savvy, and her diplomatic skills. In the few episodes that she holds the spotlight, she was the one who saved the rest of the party from getting conned - proof that you don't need to wield a weapon or throw a punch to be strong (although she does have some combat training, going by one episode). 
• River: She's mentally unstable and is a victim. She's the most overt character that needs to be "saved" in the series, but she does her own share of saving, displaying combat prowess and some psychic ability.  

TL;DR Version: The writers developed the female characters as much as they did for the male characters. Every person has strengths, weaknesses, and flaws. That coupled with a checkered past makes good, interesting characters.

Novels with a well developed (not just "strong") female protagonist:

 The In Death Series by J.D. Robb
Not only does if feature a multi-dimensional female protagonist, there's a kick-ass female side-kick and female supporting characters.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
Again, female characters with depth and dimension

What series - be it book, movie, or TV show - can you recall that has a great female characters that are just a great characters in their own right?