Speaking of the magic of writing...

Some writers are really good planners. They research, plan, plot, make character reference sheets, and compose detailed outlines of their story. I, on the other hand, am more the I'll-know-what-it's-about-when-I'm-done kind of writer. Well, yesterday on my lunch hour I was thinking I would write a sort of diary entry by the main character of a story I've been thinking about for a couple years. When I picked up my pencil, I had an urge to write instead from a secondary character's perspective. When I was done, I suddenly realized that this character should actually be the viewpoint character, with their story as the main plot. How cool is that? I love it when totally unplanned things happen and change everything for the better!

But what is it's message?

This weekend I finished reading a book and realized with horror that I had nothing to read!* In a mild panic, I scoured my bookshelf for something I hadn't read enough times to be able to outline the plot from memory. My eye fell on Ursula K. Le Guin's book, A Wizard of Earthsea. That might work. Poking around the author's website, I ran across a wonderful little article that might be of interest to anyone who is engaged in writing or reading fiction. The article is called A Message About Messages, and it describes exactly how I look at meaning and message in fiction. Here's a little teaser:

Readers—kids and adults—ask me about the message of one story or another. I want to say to them, "Your question isn't in the right language."

As a fiction writer, I don't speak message. I speak story. Sure, my story means something, but if you want to know what it means, you have to ask the question in terms appropriate to storytelling. Terms such as message are appropriate to expository writing, didactic writing, and sermons—different languages from fiction.

* "Nothing to read" in this case means "no unread work of fiction that suited my current mood."

The Dreaming Boat

I sit and stare through the window with its chipped and peeling frame. The ivy around the window has turned green, and a robin looks for worms in the tiny yard behind the house. I only notice these things out of habit. Today, everywhere I look, I see her face, hanging suspended in my memory by a single, jagged strand of longing.

"I need you," I whisper. "I wish you were here."

She doesn't answer. I sigh and lower my gaze to the worn surface of my desk. I pick up a tiny pewter sailboat and cradle it in my palm. I still remember when Rose gave it to me.

We didn't have any money on our first anniversary, but I brought Rose breakfast in bed. She sat up, her eyes bright, her hair still tousled from sleep. She pulled a little box tied with green ribbon out from under her pillow and handed it to me. It held the sailboat, of course. She knew I loved to watch the sailboats in the bay, gliding over the water, free as the wind and waves. She said she had found it at the second-hand shop for a nickel and couldn't resist.

"It's to carry your dreams so they won't get lost along the way." Her smile lit up the room.

I look at the clock. Only ten. I still have most of the worst day of the year to get through. The day I lost her.

Our daughter Judith has tried to help. She does laundry and fixes meals, leaving me notes about how to heat everything up. She and Harry always invite me over for Sunday dinner. But it wasn't what Rose did that I miss.

I hear the screen door bang and get up from my chair. Kevin never remembers to knock. A pair of bright eyes peer around the door frame. My heart catches. Her eyes. A bundle of six-year-old energy rockets across the room and flings his arms around me.

"Grandpa!"

I pat his back and muss his hair--wild brown hair, just like hers.

"Grandpa, are you sad?"

"You've gotten so big and strong you squooshed my tears out with that hug."

His wide grin lights up the room.

"What's that?" He looks at the boat, still in my hand. “Can I hold it?”

I tip the little boat from my wrinkled palm into his smooth one. “It’s a dreaming boat.”

"What's it do?"

"Well, you put your dreams in it, the things you care about more than anything, and it carries them for you so they won't get lost." I think a minute. "Maybe it's time for you to have it."

Kevin's eyes go wide. "Really? Does it work?"

I look at this small creature, full of wonder, curiosity, and light—just like Rose had been, even at the last, just before the cancer took her. I place my hand on his shoulder and force my voice past the lump in my throat. "Of course it does."