Welcome to the intro video
and an excerpt from the twenty-first post of my weekly serial, “Sketches from the
Café Confictura.” If you’d like to share a comment, please use the comment option at the end of this excerpt. To follow the mystery of Applewood, and get
recipes from Mrs. Creaverton, writing advice from Roscoe Belesprit, and fashion
tips from the Fastionista, please visit www.ClarissaJeanne.com for new posts
every Tuesday at 2:30 p.m. EST.
Schmetly jabbed
a finger at his copy of Clarke’s story. “It’s so obvious what you’re doing, you
passive-aggressive hack,” he said to Clarke.
Clarke shrugged.
“Hey, if you see yourself in my villain, I think that says more about your
psychology than about mine.”
“Your villain’s
name is Brady Schmeeple. My name is Brandon Schmetly.”
“Coincidence.”
“He shaves his
head and has a scraggly beard.”
“I think my exact
description was ‘chrome dome and roadkill hanging from his chin.’”
“And every other
character of questionable morality has a name and looks similar to mine,” said
Schmetly, “while every good guy looks and sounds like you, including Prizm,
which is as stupid a name for superhero as Schmeeple is for a villain.”
“Prizm is
nothing like me,” said Clarke.
“The emblem on
his T-shirt is a necktie.”
Clarke shot out
of his seat. “It’s a cravat and you know that,” he snapped.
Finally, Roscoe
sat down with his cup of tea. And he chuckled. “This is great.”
Allie glanced
up. “What’s great? That we’re going to get a live demonstration of Prizm and
Schmeeple’s final battle to the death?”
Roscoe said, “We
can move on now.” He thought a moment, and then spoke slowly, each thought
rolling like smooth cursive script. “For the longest time I came to these
meetings watching such talent, from all of you, languish. There were these
glimmers in your stories, and in how you fought for your stories, glimmers of
heart and soul, insights into yourselves and humanity. But that mental fog was
pernicious. It snuffed out those glimmers. That broke my heart. To know that
beyond your pages there was such potential, so much you wanted to say, just out
of reach. Talent is a most beautiful flower. If it’s not cared for and
cultivated, it withers, and that beauty is forever lost to the world.”
The members of
the salon smiled modestly at one another. For one lovely moment, even Clarke
and Schmetly met each other’s eyes, and the two exchanged a terse but, dare I
say, respectful nod.
Roscoe clapped,
once. “But now we are beyond the basics of mechanics and grammar and good
practices. Now we can move on to character development and stylistic devices. I
have good news for you all: those glimmers are finally growing stronger.
They’re becoming beacons.”
Schmetly said,
“Well, can you please tell Prizm the Wonder Dork over here to please shine his
beacon elsewhere?”
Apparently, the
lovely moment was over.
Clarke scowled
and tried to say something, but Roscoe cut him off. “Yes, Clarke, this is what
I wanted to talk to you about. One thing a writer needs to balance in his
stories is ego.”
“Yeah,” said
Schmetly. “That means don’t make yourself the hero.”
Roscoe said,
“Which Clarke has done quite literally here.”
Clarke threw up
his hands. “I’m not Prizm.”
Portia said,
“Oh, please. You’re wearing a T-shirt with a necktie on it right now, aren’t
you?”
“I told you,
it’s a crav . . . You know what? Forget it. Style is lost on you.”
Violet, who had
been walking through the room, gave Clarke an understanding nod and pat on the
shoulder.
“Ego’s a tricky
thing,” said Roscoe. “We all have agendas when we’re writing, we want a reader
to like our heroes and hate our villains, and we may even want them to like us,
the author. Your characters need to have egos, of course, because that’s one of
the driving forces of their choices. But an author’s got to learn how to dial
back his own ego. Fear and pride are so intertwined with our egos. We don’t
want to get shot down, or look stupid. We maybe don’t want to be the first one
to give an opinion because people might disagree. We don’t want to make the
wrong move at the wrong time, and when you’re dealing with a blank page there’s
always the chance that could happen.
“But,” he said,
“at some point, you have to take a chance. You’ve got to write something on
that blank page and that, my friends, is why we have first drafts and our
salon. Clarke, kudos to you for the strides you’ve made as a writer. Really,
there’s some good stuff here.”
Clarke beamed,
and then made a face at Schmetly.
“And I’m sure,”
Roscoe continued, “that when we take Schmetly’s story next week, he’ll want you
to be forgiving of any missteps he makes.”
Schmetly lifted
his shoulder in a reluctant shrug.
“No one’s
perfect, folks,” said Roscoe. “The point is that whatever fears you may have,
or if your self-confidence is faltering a bit, you can’t let that show on the
page. Nor can you overcompensate for it on the page. You’ve got to go for it:
write honestly, and stay focused on what’s important.”
Abruptly,
then, Roscoe stopped talking. He just stopped.
--To
read the rest of the post, please click here to go to www.ClarissaJeanne.com/leggo_your_ego.html,
and then share your comments below--
No comments:
Post a Comment