How an Invisible Rabbit can help you write about a pony

London 1975.  Prince of Wales Theater.  Jimmy Stewart, playing Elwood P. Dowd, and the other cast members enchant me into seeing a six-foot, eight-inch tall pooka or rabbit named Harvey on stage.  I have loved the magic of theater ever since I could afford the price of a ticket.  Some highlights of my appreciation of the theatrical arts include Kevin Spacey (this was a decade before his alleged sexual harassment history hit the news) as Richard III at the Old Vic in London and Vanessa Redgrave and Joely Richardson as mother and daughter in “Lady Windermere’s Fan” at the Theater Royal Haymarket.  My enjoyment of theater is not dependent on movie stars in leading roles.  I adore community productions of “Our Town” and “Tony N Tina’s Wedding.” 

My only attempt behind the proscenium was when another woman and I (students of non-traditional age in a two-week college program in Greece) read the roles of Euelpides and Pisthetairos in Aristophanes’s “The Birds,” a farcical, satirical fantasy written in Greece around 400 BC.   Our version of the play was staged on the Aegean beach on the Greek island of Kos.  I suspect we won the roles because the professors thought our maturity would enable us to handle lines such as “chickenshitter,” “tickling his testicles,” and “with cocks erect.”  We couldn’t, but after a glass of ouzo we were better at pretending. 

         My experience with writing plays is zilch.  So I was perplexed by a class assignment on drama.  What possible use could I have for learning how to write plays?  Then it struck me like a falling medium-arc iodide spotlight.  Since I was having problems writing the scene of Quentin sneaking Algonquin the pony into the boys' bedroom to cheer up his brother Archie who had the measles, I could re-write the pony in the elevator event as a mini-play.  The techniques used in drama should help me to better visualize what was happening.  I am adapting Anne Lamott’s suggestion in Bird By Bird of using a different method of conveying character information, in my case a play instead of a letter, to free me “from the tyranny of perfectionism.”

I read Burroway's Imaginative Writing to determining which techniques of the theater might help me in this restaging.  Since my miniplay needs to occur on a stage, I choose to set it in Archie and Quentin’s bedroom, which requires reviewing floor plans for the White House in 1903.  The set designer needs to sketch the location of windows and doors, style of bedroom furniture, source of light, appropriate props, etc., to help establish mood and period.  Translating the plot into dramatic terms means that the inciting incident is the quarantining of Quentin and Archie to their beds because of measles; exposition can be delivered by two servants explaining the boys’ dissatisfaction with the quarantine; and the point of attack comes when Archie is denied a visit with his pony.

Understanding the design of the set is important so that I can block the movement of the actors.  Does Archie get out of bed to open the curtains?   From where does the pony enter?  As part of the stage directions, I can describe any critical actions that Archie or Quentin perform while reciting a bit of dialog.  Does Archie jump out of bed to greet Algonquin?  Does he stay in bed and let the pony approach him?

A consideration of nonverbal sounds is necessary.  What diegetic sounds, sounds that originate from objects present on the stage, need to be considered?  An important one is the sound of the elevator which could be heard because it abuts the back of the boys’ bedroom.  Other diegetic sounds would be the clip clop of pony hooves down the hall and the opening or closing of drapes.  I choose not to use any nondiegetic sounds until I rewrite the play as a musical.

Burroway presents some “things to remember” about play dialog that I find useful in writing fiction or non-fiction.  Introduce the conflict early so I need to ensure that Archie asks to visit Algonquin close to the beginning of the play.  Dialogue needs to be written so that the actors can speak it in a natural way.  Silences can be used to introduce tension.  The length of the dialog spoken by characters can be varied to retain the listener’s interest.

I sent the pony play to my sister.  Her reactions helped me evaluate what format works well in telling different parts of the story.  Exposition about the measles epidemic slows down the play format but can work well as a written introduction to non-fiction.  The elevator scene would work best in a filmed format since the director can control the frame, angle, close ups, and points of view to focus on the interactions between person and pony.  The mother-sons-pony scene can work well in film, drama, or non-fiction if the format captures the truth of the moment.   
 My sister, who has met my Icelandic horse (remember Algonquin is half Icelandic), identifies the truth of the scene as “Blessi always finds the treats!!!”  Writing the pony in the elevator scene as a play better enabled me to get to the truth of the event.  As Donald Barthelme says, “Truth ... is a hard apple, whether one is throwing it or catching it.”  Apples—and cookies--make it easier to catch the truth of a pony.

Bark Like a Puppy, Ooze Like a Sump

This week’s musing is neither comprehensive nor balanced in comparing the approaches to writing of Anne Lamott versus Janet Burroway.  Let’s get Lamott's Bird by Bird out of the way.  One, writers are subject to jealousy of more successful authors as an occupational hazard.  OK, Lamott, I understand jealousy of other writers makes you bark like a puppy and ooze like a sump.  But I am not a professional writer so I am not consumed with jealousy—only some minor envy--of other writers.  Yes, I’ll keep dancing.  Two, carrying index cards at all times is a useful method to capture ideas that “float into your head like goldfish, lovely, bright orange, and weightless.”  I or my cats have killed every single fish I ever brought home from the pet store in less than a week.  I have tried jotting down ideas on bits of paper but they end up strewn about my house like tickertape after a parade in New York City.  See Lamott, I can use similes too.  However, I lack the discipline to do something with those ideas after they are jotted down so I need to work on writing on a schedule now, not generating new ideas for writing.  Three, authors may find it useful to call experts in the field both as a source of technical knowledge and “witty and articulate” material.  Yes Lamott, I will be sure to call some Teddy Roosevelt experts at some point.  Thanks for making me read four pages to find out that the technical name for the wire cage over the cork on a champagne bottle is a wire hood.

Burroway discusses techniques that can be used in writing creative nonfiction such as image, voice, scene, character, setting, etc.  After reading her section on transition in Imaginative Writing, I realize that I still have no idea what a transition is or how to use it.  Her definition is “authorial intrusion.”  I look up “transitions” in www.theeditorsblog.net.  Beth Hill defines transition as a passage that “takes characters and readers to a new location, a new time, or a new point of view. Transitions can also be used to show a character’s change in heart or frame of mind.”  Transitions can be as simple as the phrase “Later that week” or a series of pound signs or as complicated as multiple paragraphs.  Hill says transitions can be used to change level of tension, pace, time, mood, character point of view, etc.  So I review the stories published in Imaginative Writing to determine how transitions are handled.  Margaret Atwood in “The Female Body” uses cardinal numbers.   Gayle Pemberton in “Do He Have Your Number, Mr. Jeffrey?” uses a paragraph to transition from the narrator describing working for a caterer at an upscale party to her mother’s experiences working as a maid fifty years earlier.  Burroway, why complicate your explanation of “transitions” to pretentious, academic incomprehensibility?

That brings me to “fact and truth” in creative nonfiction.  How’s that for a transition Burroway?  As Burroway states, “The distance between ‘facts’ and ‘essential truth,’ of course, can be troubling.  What and how much is it fair to make up?” I had this question when reading Ann Dillard’s “The Giant Water Bug.”  Having spent a misbegotten year as an undergraduate biology major, I was suspicious of the “truth” of Dillard’s description of a frog deflating before her eyes due to the dining habits of a giant water bug; digestive enzymes do not act that fast.  So I did some research on belostomids and found that it takes a giant water bug twelve to eighteen hours to suck dry its prey through multiple bites.  Her description is “monstrous and terrifying” but is it true?  How important is the distinction between “instantly” and “twelve hours”?  Would only a biologist care?  Because the biological “truth” is important to me, I now suspect the “facts” in Dillard’s writings while envying her literary skills.  Dillard, stick to scaring frogs.

Lee Gutkind states that a writer of creative non-fiction leverages “the diligence of a reporter, the shifting voices and viewpoints of a novelist, the refined wordplay of a poet, and the analytical modes of the essayist.” I found Gutkind’s inclusion of journalism problematic from the viewpoint that a reporter holds to standards of fact-checking and on-the-record versus off-the-record that may not apply to a writer of creative non-fiction.  Bruce Chatwin in In Patagonia incorporates his memories of conversations with people in that country without previously warning them he may “quote” them in his book.   Chatwin’s biographer Nicholas Shakespeare reports several Patagonians complain that these conversations are biased or totally made up. As Shakespeare says about Chatwin “He told not a half-truth but a truth and a half.  His achievement is not to depict Patagonia as it really is, but to create a landscape called Patagonia—a new way of looking, a new aspect of the world.”  Patagonians, don’t talk to writers.

I face the same challenge in my Algonquin book.  I am making up dialogue and details about scenes.  I will essay to explain in my footnotes where I employ a lot of creativity. How ironic it is that good creative non-fiction relies on enhancing the truth to make a good story whereas good fiction writing requires making the reader believe that story is true enough to suspend disbelief.