Lisa Genova's Blog, page 2
February 7, 2018
EVERY NOTE PLAYED: Bonus Material
I’m reading through my research and writing notebooks for EVERY NOTE PLAYED, going over the journey, fascinated and amused to witness my struggle to discover these characters and their stories, proud of my persistence and willingness to surrender, amazed that I eventually unearthed the words to build this story.
And then I found some words that I’d forgotten about, words that really should be in this book. Oh well—Bonus Material!
ALS is inside him, a faceless enemy because he can’t see or even imagine it. The problem is, he’s taking this personally. He needs a face, someone to blame, to fight. But there is no face to this disease. Scientists don’t even know what to target or battle. So he sits there with his arms hanging by his sides, defenseless while his faceless enemy destroys him. Utterly unopposed. If ALS had a face, it would be laughing at how easy it is to kill him.
And then I found some words that I’d forgotten about, words that really should be in this book. Oh well—Bonus Material!
ALS is inside him, a faceless enemy because he can’t see or even imagine it. The problem is, he’s taking this personally. He needs a face, someone to blame, to fight. But there is no face to this disease. Scientists don’t even know what to target or battle. So he sits there with his arms hanging by his sides, defenseless while his faceless enemy destroys him. Utterly unopposed. If ALS had a face, it would be laughing at how easy it is to kill him.
January 11, 2018
Writing Lessons Learned from Acting!
When I began writing STILL ALICE, I had no creative writing experience. As a neuroscientist, I authored many research articles, but my writing was limited to research papers like this one: 5HT3 Receptor Activation is Required for Induction of Striatal C-fos and the phosphorylation of ATF-1 by Amphetamine. Exactly. This clearly didn't prepare me for writing fiction.
So what's a neuroscientist who wants to be a novelist to do? I read books on craft, great resources such as On Writing by Stephen King, Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg, The Sound of Paper by Julia Cameron (author of The Artist's Way, also a favorite), and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. But mostly, I learned to write novels through acting.
I trained as an actress for about nine hours a week while I was writing STILL ALICE. (LOL, my days were consumed with writing a novel in Starbucks and acting on stage in Boston--a far cry from lab rats and pipettes!). And I think acting was the best writing class I could've ever hoped to take. The principles of acting apply beautifully to writing. I remember sharing this philosophy once with Jeannette Walls, author of The Glass Castle. I could tell she wasn't convinced during our conversation, but later, she had this to say in an interview with Publisher's Weekly:
Walls recalls that Lisa Genova was once asked what was the best advice anyone had ever given her regarding writing, and Genova responded, “Take an acting class.” Walls says, “At first, I thought, that is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard. In writing The Silver Star, however, I finally understood that advice. You have to get inside your characters’ heads, to make them sympathetic, believable, and not two-dimensional.”
With every novel I write, I keep the principles I learned from acting in mind. Here they are:
Raise the stakes wherever you can!
Reveal the flaws
Find the humor
Where are the characters vulnerable?
BE SPECIFIC
Where do the characters share intimately?
What are the given circumstances?
Who is driving the scene? Who has the power? Does it shift? When and how?
What are the obstacles? Be aware of them, even if in the background.
What is the rhythm, pace, tempo?
What words are important, triggered, charged?
What is the character NOT saying or revealing? Where is the character censoring? What is the subtext? What is hidden beneath the surface?
What does each character desperately want? (forgiveness, love, salvation, acceptance) What happens if she doesn’t get it?
In each scene, is it the character’s first time, last time, last chance?
Find the moments of crisis—everything to gain, everything to lose.
For each character---what happens to me in this story? How am I changed?
Envision each character’s body, eyes, voice, gestures. Where is the voice placed? How much eye contact does the character make? Is the character expansive physically or introverted? Shy? Energetic? Nervous? Smart?
Wants that make you MORE vulnerable imply higher stakes and more risk.
Create environments by describing specific details of what is around you in a way that contributes to the emotional content of the scene (the weather, level of safety, whether someone might be listening, whether the chair is clean or dirty).
What is each character afraid of?
What does each character need to survive?
What are the ghosts in the scene? The past? The voices inside the character’s head?
What psychological gestures or ticks do the characters have?
Where is the sexual energy?
So what's a neuroscientist who wants to be a novelist to do? I read books on craft, great resources such as On Writing by Stephen King, Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg, The Sound of Paper by Julia Cameron (author of The Artist's Way, also a favorite), and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. But mostly, I learned to write novels through acting.
I trained as an actress for about nine hours a week while I was writing STILL ALICE. (LOL, my days were consumed with writing a novel in Starbucks and acting on stage in Boston--a far cry from lab rats and pipettes!). And I think acting was the best writing class I could've ever hoped to take. The principles of acting apply beautifully to writing. I remember sharing this philosophy once with Jeannette Walls, author of The Glass Castle. I could tell she wasn't convinced during our conversation, but later, she had this to say in an interview with Publisher's Weekly:
Walls recalls that Lisa Genova was once asked what was the best advice anyone had ever given her regarding writing, and Genova responded, “Take an acting class.” Walls says, “At first, I thought, that is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard. In writing The Silver Star, however, I finally understood that advice. You have to get inside your characters’ heads, to make them sympathetic, believable, and not two-dimensional.”
With every novel I write, I keep the principles I learned from acting in mind. Here they are:
Raise the stakes wherever you can!
Reveal the flaws
Find the humor
Where are the characters vulnerable?
BE SPECIFIC
Where do the characters share intimately?
What are the given circumstances?
Who is driving the scene? Who has the power? Does it shift? When and how?
What are the obstacles? Be aware of them, even if in the background.
What is the rhythm, pace, tempo?
What words are important, triggered, charged?
What is the character NOT saying or revealing? Where is the character censoring? What is the subtext? What is hidden beneath the surface?
What does each character desperately want? (forgiveness, love, salvation, acceptance) What happens if she doesn’t get it?
In each scene, is it the character’s first time, last time, last chance?
Find the moments of crisis—everything to gain, everything to lose.
For each character---what happens to me in this story? How am I changed?
Envision each character’s body, eyes, voice, gestures. Where is the voice placed? How much eye contact does the character make? Is the character expansive physically or introverted? Shy? Energetic? Nervous? Smart?
Wants that make you MORE vulnerable imply higher stakes and more risk.
Create environments by describing specific details of what is around you in a way that contributes to the emotional content of the scene (the weather, level of safety, whether someone might be listening, whether the chair is clean or dirty).
What is each character afraid of?
What does each character need to survive?
What are the ghosts in the scene? The past? The voices inside the character’s head?
What psychological gestures or ticks do the characters have?
Where is the sexual energy?
January 2, 2018
Lisa's 10 Rules of Writing
1. Show up and stay there. Stay in your seat. Nothing is coming to you, you say? You’re staring at a blank page or the blinking cursor on a white screen? Stay. Resist the urge to flee and do something else (check Facebook, text someone, eat something, do laundry, take a nap). Learn how to be comfortable being uncomfortable.
2. You can’t edit nothing. Write something. You can edit something.
3. Give yourself permission to begin without it being perfect. I begin with pen to paper, writing in a loose, sketch-like, journaling, incomplete sentence form. This allows me to find a way into the “real” writing. I usually begin with what I’m unsure of, afraid of, pissed off about, dreading. I jot down a flash of a thought about what needs to happen next, what a character might say, and then and then and then. And then, I’m in. There’s something magical in the connection from brain to hand to pen to paper. Grab a pen and go. Let loose. Don’t be judgmental or afraid to be sloppy here. Julia Cameron calls this process “morning pages.” Natalie Goldberg calls it “getting the pen moving.” I call it “permission to begin.”
4. Tell the truth. Always. If you lie to your readers, they will break up with you.
5. Be present. Slow down and be in the moment within your story. What is there to see, smell, hear? What’s the temperature, the emotion, the energy? Go inside moment to moment. Breathe and really be there.
6. Believe it’s already done. In some kind of time-space continuum, I believe every book I write is already written. So why am I avoiding writing chapter 12? It’s already done. Show up, stay there, and get the words down.
7. Do your homework. This is not simply a Google search, people. Whenever possible, go to the primary source. Your story takes place at Yellowstone National Park? Go there. Your main character is a lawyer? Start hanging around a courthouse. Writing about a woman with Alzheimer’s? Get to know people who have Alzheimer’s, their families, caregivers, doctors. Three-dimensional research will breathe three-dimensional life into your story.
8. Cross-training. I write novels. I read everything—scientific journal articles, medical textbooks, spiritual texts, nonfiction, memoir, classic literature, contemporary fiction, plays, poetry. Listen to all kinds of music. Go to the theatre, the ballet, museums. Keep your senses open for what works and what doesn’t, what’s beautiful, what makes you care, what lights you up, for the universal threads of human experience.
9. Show yourself. Be brave. Be vulnerable. Open your heart. That’s where the real stuff lives and breathes. Now write.
10. You’re going to be dead someday. Write it now.
2. You can’t edit nothing. Write something. You can edit something.
3. Give yourself permission to begin without it being perfect. I begin with pen to paper, writing in a loose, sketch-like, journaling, incomplete sentence form. This allows me to find a way into the “real” writing. I usually begin with what I’m unsure of, afraid of, pissed off about, dreading. I jot down a flash of a thought about what needs to happen next, what a character might say, and then and then and then. And then, I’m in. There’s something magical in the connection from brain to hand to pen to paper. Grab a pen and go. Let loose. Don’t be judgmental or afraid to be sloppy here. Julia Cameron calls this process “morning pages.” Natalie Goldberg calls it “getting the pen moving.” I call it “permission to begin.”
4. Tell the truth. Always. If you lie to your readers, they will break up with you.
5. Be present. Slow down and be in the moment within your story. What is there to see, smell, hear? What’s the temperature, the emotion, the energy? Go inside moment to moment. Breathe and really be there.
6. Believe it’s already done. In some kind of time-space continuum, I believe every book I write is already written. So why am I avoiding writing chapter 12? It’s already done. Show up, stay there, and get the words down.
7. Do your homework. This is not simply a Google search, people. Whenever possible, go to the primary source. Your story takes place at Yellowstone National Park? Go there. Your main character is a lawyer? Start hanging around a courthouse. Writing about a woman with Alzheimer’s? Get to know people who have Alzheimer’s, their families, caregivers, doctors. Three-dimensional research will breathe three-dimensional life into your story.
8. Cross-training. I write novels. I read everything—scientific journal articles, medical textbooks, spiritual texts, nonfiction, memoir, classic literature, contemporary fiction, plays, poetry. Listen to all kinds of music. Go to the theatre, the ballet, museums. Keep your senses open for what works and what doesn’t, what’s beautiful, what makes you care, what lights you up, for the universal threads of human experience.
9. Show yourself. Be brave. Be vulnerable. Open your heart. That’s where the real stuff lives and breathes. Now write.
10. You’re going to be dead someday. Write it now.
December 5, 2017
Inspired by a Washashore Cowgirl
On Friday, I took my two youngest kids to Cape Symphony's CapePOPS! series "Holiday on the Cape." My favorite part of the concert was a medley of holiday songs sung by guest artist Monica Rizzio. My kids were dazzled by her. I get it. I'm dazzled by Monica, too.
Monica is a dear friend. She was also my piano teacher while I was writing Every Note Played.(Both protagonists in this book are pianists, so I took lessons as one of the many ways I researched these characters). She is now my daughter's piano teacher. And she is an amazing musician. The title track off her debut album, WASHASHORE COWGIRL, has been spun over 100,000 times on Spotify--a huge accomplishment for any indie artist!
All this love and admiration for Monica has me thinking about the first words of EVERY NOTE PLAYED. For many reasons--all of them having to do with fear--I had an enormously hard time beginning this book. Monica doesn't know this, but she pulled me out of that fear gutter and onto the first page of this book.
And here's the entry from my writing journal, describing what happened. Thank you, Monica. I love you! XO
Okay, Lisa. WTF?! How long are you going to avoid chapter 1 of this book? You know more about this story at the outset than any other book you’ve written. You are on your FIFTH book—you KNOW how to do this!! Plow through your fear and just get to it already. Okay, okay. I will today, for better or worse—whether it totally sucks or not, I will write 1500 words of chapter 1 today. There. It’s decided. So it’s already done then.
Going to Monica’s house concert for her CD release party the other night was literally inspiring. She reminded me of the work, the art of it, the joy of creating something beautiful and meaningful and important to share. I could feel her soul pouring through her words and the strings of her guitar—she took my breath away, thrilled me, moved me. I know what it’s like to do that, but not with a guitar or my voice (lol—no one but my kids should be subjected to my singing!).
I do it with the written word.
So do it, Lisa. This is the reason you’re here—to do this work; to shine an empathetic light on people and experiences previously unseen; to bring excluded people back into community by showing the world our common humanity, by making what is scary and foreign and overwhelming familiar, graspable, relatable; by connecting ALS to the experience of being human, to living and dying; to face our biggest challenges and fears.
I can do this. This is what I do. So do it, girl.
Monica is a dear friend. She was also my piano teacher while I was writing Every Note Played.(Both protagonists in this book are pianists, so I took lessons as one of the many ways I researched these characters). She is now my daughter's piano teacher. And she is an amazing musician. The title track off her debut album, WASHASHORE COWGIRL, has been spun over 100,000 times on Spotify--a huge accomplishment for any indie artist!
All this love and admiration for Monica has me thinking about the first words of EVERY NOTE PLAYED. For many reasons--all of them having to do with fear--I had an enormously hard time beginning this book. Monica doesn't know this, but she pulled me out of that fear gutter and onto the first page of this book.
And here's the entry from my writing journal, describing what happened. Thank you, Monica. I love you! XO
Okay, Lisa. WTF?! How long are you going to avoid chapter 1 of this book? You know more about this story at the outset than any other book you’ve written. You are on your FIFTH book—you KNOW how to do this!! Plow through your fear and just get to it already. Okay, okay. I will today, for better or worse—whether it totally sucks or not, I will write 1500 words of chapter 1 today. There. It’s decided. So it’s already done then.
Going to Monica’s house concert for her CD release party the other night was literally inspiring. She reminded me of the work, the art of it, the joy of creating something beautiful and meaningful and important to share. I could feel her soul pouring through her words and the strings of her guitar—she took my breath away, thrilled me, moved me. I know what it’s like to do that, but not with a guitar or my voice (lol—no one but my kids should be subjected to my singing!).
I do it with the written word.
So do it, Lisa. This is the reason you’re here—to do this work; to shine an empathetic light on people and experiences previously unseen; to bring excluded people back into community by showing the world our common humanity, by making what is scary and foreign and overwhelming familiar, graspable, relatable; by connecting ALS to the experience of being human, to living and dying; to face our biggest challenges and fears.
I can do this. This is what I do. So do it, girl.
August 25, 2017
The Power of Intention: My experience at TED
So, the Pope, Serena Williams, Lisa Genova, and Elon Musk walk into a bar….
I haven’t yet figured out the perfect witty punch line to follow that setup, but the four of us can be found together in a different kind of sentence which tickles me just as much as any joke. Our TED talks are the first talks posted to ted.com from TED2017 in Vancouver.
I had the extraordinary experience of attending and speaking at the TED conference last week. In the haze of my TED hangover, I’m beginning to realize how changed I am by it all. The speakers were brilliant, creative, innovative, passionate, and compassionate, introducing ideas and conversations and missions that will likely change the world in important, exciting, often stunningly beautiful, and necessary ways. I wept in awe several times, bearing witness to excellence and heroism and the ways in which we’re all connected. I felt cracked open to bigger possibilities, drunk on inspiration, energized to live my life with even greater purpose.
While I was mesmerized by every talk for the first day and a half, there was the looming issue of my own talk. I’ve been speaking about Alzheimer’s and other neurological diseases and conditions in front of small and large audiences for years. So you might think that a TED talk would be a piece of cake.
Not even close!
TED is a different kind of beast. Instead of having an hour with plenty of room to relax and run, I had 13 minutes. Less is harder. Much harder.
And then there’s the psychological terror. TERROR, I tell you. If I bomb a talk in Fresno, CA, for example, that dreadful experience stays with the people of Fresno who unfortunately had to endure that debacle (thankfully, this has never happened). On the other hand, if for some reason I were to bomb my TED talk, one of two things could happen: 1. It was such an epic catastrophe, TED decides not to publish it, or 2. It’s not a total catastrophe, so TED does publish it, and the entire world gets to see me kind of suck it.
So there was an unsettling amount of anxiety and fear of public humiliation brewing in my body prior to my talk. I told my beloved Joe, “If I go down for any reason, you jump up and finish my talk!” Because what if I pass out on that red dot? I was planning for all contingencies. I was somewhat amused and comforted to notice that speakers far more accomplished and brilliant in their respective fields were as freaked out as I was. We were newfound friends in this strange TED land together.
The night before my talk, I was on the phone with stylist George Brescia, fretting about what I was going to wear, of all things (as a woman, does this ever end?), and he gave me something much better than fashion advice, words of wisdom that very likely saved my TED ass. He said, “Get clear on your intention.” And I immediately got teary, because in that moment, the real reason for that phone call revealed itself.
I sat down and put pen to paper without thinking, editing, or stopping until I was done. An enormous, loving thank you to George for reminding me to align with my spirit, that ‘it’s not about me,’ for getting my head and heart on straight. Hopefully, when you watch my TED talk, which thankfully was not a catastrophe, you’ll feel my intention.
Here it is, the intention and the talk:
My intention for my TED talk tomorrow:
To teach the people in the audience what we know about the neuroscience of Alzheimer’s,
to explain to them what we can do about preventing it.
To be clear and animated, dynamic and interesting.
To show people that Alzheimer’s isn’t inevitable,
that they can have control over their brain health,
that even if they get Alzheimer’s someday, they are still human beings worthy of love and joy.
I intend to ENJOY it and feel the awe and gratitude of BEING here.
I intend to be super present, to be in conversation with this audience, to love them and feel loved by them,
to inspire them to live better,
to inspire them to keep loving their loved ones with Alzheimer’s.
To give a talk I will forever be enormously proud of,
to make my nana giggle with pride.
I am so excited, so grateful, so ready for this BIG, wonderful, beautiful opportunity to connect with so many people!!!
I haven’t yet figured out the perfect witty punch line to follow that setup, but the four of us can be found together in a different kind of sentence which tickles me just as much as any joke. Our TED talks are the first talks posted to ted.com from TED2017 in Vancouver.
I had the extraordinary experience of attending and speaking at the TED conference last week. In the haze of my TED hangover, I’m beginning to realize how changed I am by it all. The speakers were brilliant, creative, innovative, passionate, and compassionate, introducing ideas and conversations and missions that will likely change the world in important, exciting, often stunningly beautiful, and necessary ways. I wept in awe several times, bearing witness to excellence and heroism and the ways in which we’re all connected. I felt cracked open to bigger possibilities, drunk on inspiration, energized to live my life with even greater purpose.
While I was mesmerized by every talk for the first day and a half, there was the looming issue of my own talk. I’ve been speaking about Alzheimer’s and other neurological diseases and conditions in front of small and large audiences for years. So you might think that a TED talk would be a piece of cake.
Not even close!
TED is a different kind of beast. Instead of having an hour with plenty of room to relax and run, I had 13 minutes. Less is harder. Much harder.
And then there’s the psychological terror. TERROR, I tell you. If I bomb a talk in Fresno, CA, for example, that dreadful experience stays with the people of Fresno who unfortunately had to endure that debacle (thankfully, this has never happened). On the other hand, if for some reason I were to bomb my TED talk, one of two things could happen: 1. It was such an epic catastrophe, TED decides not to publish it, or 2. It’s not a total catastrophe, so TED does publish it, and the entire world gets to see me kind of suck it.
So there was an unsettling amount of anxiety and fear of public humiliation brewing in my body prior to my talk. I told my beloved Joe, “If I go down for any reason, you jump up and finish my talk!” Because what if I pass out on that red dot? I was planning for all contingencies. I was somewhat amused and comforted to notice that speakers far more accomplished and brilliant in their respective fields were as freaked out as I was. We were newfound friends in this strange TED land together.
The night before my talk, I was on the phone with stylist George Brescia, fretting about what I was going to wear, of all things (as a woman, does this ever end?), and he gave me something much better than fashion advice, words of wisdom that very likely saved my TED ass. He said, “Get clear on your intention.” And I immediately got teary, because in that moment, the real reason for that phone call revealed itself.
I sat down and put pen to paper without thinking, editing, or stopping until I was done. An enormous, loving thank you to George for reminding me to align with my spirit, that ‘it’s not about me,’ for getting my head and heart on straight. Hopefully, when you watch my TED talk, which thankfully was not a catastrophe, you’ll feel my intention.
Here it is, the intention and the talk:
My intention for my TED talk tomorrow:
To teach the people in the audience what we know about the neuroscience of Alzheimer’s,
to explain to them what we can do about preventing it.
To be clear and animated, dynamic and interesting.
To show people that Alzheimer’s isn’t inevitable,
that they can have control over their brain health,
that even if they get Alzheimer’s someday, they are still human beings worthy of love and joy.
I intend to ENJOY it and feel the awe and gratitude of BEING here.
I intend to be super present, to be in conversation with this audience, to love them and feel loved by them,
to inspire them to live better,
to inspire them to keep loving their loved ones with Alzheimer’s.
To give a talk I will forever be enormously proud of,
to make my nana giggle with pride.
I am so excited, so grateful, so ready for this BIG, wonderful, beautiful opportunity to connect with so many people!!!
April 8, 2016
Beginning Book 5
After many months of research, and writing bits of this and that, I need to start chapter 1, the legit beginning of this next book. SO much resistance here. I feel like I don't know these people well enough to get started. But you're not supposed to, remember? That's how this relationship starts. You don't know them yet. You can only know them by writing them. So how do you solve this dilemma, Lisa? You begin writing.
You can (and will) adjust whatever doesn't work, right? Right. You've done this before, so don't panic. What is this book about other than ALS? Regret. Forgiveness. Feeling trapped. Letting go. Communication. Connection. Death. Freedom. BOOM. There it is, the whole book. Trust that you have it. Your job is to show up to the page/computer and allow it to come, word by word. The story and details will unfold as they come.
You don't get to know the whole thing before you begin--like any relationship, right? You agree to leap in not knowing everything about the person, not knowing how the journey will unfold, how it will end. This is how it must begin. Beginnings take courage.
So get to it, girl. Pour your heart and soul into this one. Don't hold back. Let it heal you.
You can (and will) adjust whatever doesn't work, right? Right. You've done this before, so don't panic. What is this book about other than ALS? Regret. Forgiveness. Feeling trapped. Letting go. Communication. Connection. Death. Freedom. BOOM. There it is, the whole book. Trust that you have it. Your job is to show up to the page/computer and allow it to come, word by word. The story and details will unfold as they come.
You don't get to know the whole thing before you begin--like any relationship, right? You agree to leap in not knowing everything about the person, not knowing how the journey will unfold, how it will end. This is how it must begin. Beginnings take courage.
So get to it, girl. Pour your heart and soul into this one. Don't hold back. Let it heal you.
May 28, 2014
There Is a Bridge
I recently attended a 3.5 day "There Is a Bridge" workshop in Stewart, Florida, run by the brilliant Michael Verde of Memory Bridge. Here's what I had to say about the experience:
“Outside of a cure, the most vital need of people with Alzheimer’s disease and their loved ones is real emotional connection. How do we continue to communicate with someone with AD who doesn’t talk or remember us? How can we be with people with AD so they are not left feeling the pain of isolation, abandonment, and loneliness? How do we overcome our own feelings of self-consciousness, discomfort, and fear of AD to be fully present and connected with someone with dementia?
I’m confident that everyone in this workshop came away understanding the answers to these questions, but it wasn’t through taking notes, reading power-point slides or listening to lectures. We embodied the answers. We remembered how to feel safe while vulnerable, how to let go of judgment, to offer empathy, to see the humanity and vulnerability in every person, to remember that everyone matters, how to communicate joy, understanding, and love without words or memories—through body language, emotional connection, and the willingness to be fully present in front of another human being.
Everyone should experience this workshop." -Lisa Genova
Memory Bridge Website
Video clips from "There Is a Bridge"
“Outside of a cure, the most vital need of people with Alzheimer’s disease and their loved ones is real emotional connection. How do we continue to communicate with someone with AD who doesn’t talk or remember us? How can we be with people with AD so they are not left feeling the pain of isolation, abandonment, and loneliness? How do we overcome our own feelings of self-consciousness, discomfort, and fear of AD to be fully present and connected with someone with dementia?
I’m confident that everyone in this workshop came away understanding the answers to these questions, but it wasn’t through taking notes, reading power-point slides or listening to lectures. We embodied the answers. We remembered how to feel safe while vulnerable, how to let go of judgment, to offer empathy, to see the humanity and vulnerability in every person, to remember that everyone matters, how to communicate joy, understanding, and love without words or memories—through body language, emotional connection, and the willingness to be fully present in front of another human being.
Everyone should experience this workshop." -Lisa Genova
Memory Bridge Website
Video clips from "There Is a Bridge"
November 5, 2013
Book 4 - Chapter 11: Writing fiction is not for sissies
Today I began chapter 11 of book 4 (still untitled). Here's an excerpt from the writing I did before the writing:
Okay, this chapter scares the hell out of me. Is this how it's going to go now, scared every chapter? Yes, probably. Because here's the rub--you are falling fast now (momentum is a good thing) into the dark, meaty depths of Huntington's Disease with the O'Briens. You know this family now, and you like them, and bad things are happening to people you care about. What they are about to face is hard and heartbreaking and cruel and scary, and you have to go there with them. And not only that, you can't go there with any armor on. You can't go as a tourist. You have to be as vulnerable as possible, holding their hands, hugging them while they cry. You're going to cry, too. And while we're all exposed and suffering together in the dark, it will be your job to keep an eye open for the pinholes of light, moments and words and spaces where there is the possibility for hope and inspiration, change leading to deeper love and connection and meaning despite this horror. So deep breath. Here we all go.
And that led me into chapter 11. Writing fiction is not for sissies.
This also reminded me of a quote from "From Where You Dream: The Process of Writing Fiction" by Robert Olen Butler:
"You have to go down into that deepest, darkest, most roiling, white hot place….Whatever scared the hell out of you there--and there's plenty--you have to go in there; down into the deepest part of it, and you can't flinch and walk away. That's the only way to create a work of art."
Okay, this chapter scares the hell out of me. Is this how it's going to go now, scared every chapter? Yes, probably. Because here's the rub--you are falling fast now (momentum is a good thing) into the dark, meaty depths of Huntington's Disease with the O'Briens. You know this family now, and you like them, and bad things are happening to people you care about. What they are about to face is hard and heartbreaking and cruel and scary, and you have to go there with them. And not only that, you can't go there with any armor on. You can't go as a tourist. You have to be as vulnerable as possible, holding their hands, hugging them while they cry. You're going to cry, too. And while we're all exposed and suffering together in the dark, it will be your job to keep an eye open for the pinholes of light, moments and words and spaces where there is the possibility for hope and inspiration, change leading to deeper love and connection and meaning despite this horror. So deep breath. Here we all go.
And that led me into chapter 11. Writing fiction is not for sissies.
This also reminded me of a quote from "From Where You Dream: The Process of Writing Fiction" by Robert Olen Butler:
"You have to go down into that deepest, darkest, most roiling, white hot place….Whatever scared the hell out of you there--and there's plenty--you have to go in there; down into the deepest part of it, and you can't flinch and walk away. That's the only way to create a work of art."
October 16, 2013
Book #4, in progress
9/30/13
I'm concerned about this book on a number of structural levels. Let's list them here on paper so they're not all knocking around in my head all day.
1. I think it takes too long to get Joe diagnosed.
2. Mentions of 4/15/13, Boston Marathon, makes this all happening in present day. If I want to advance Joe's HD at all, even assuming he's at least 7 years in from page 1, we have to go into the future. At least 3 years, probably 5? Do you want to write about these characters in 2016, 2018? Is that too weird? You can drop out all reference to 4/15, but then the Red Sox references to post season play will have to jibe with previous seasons. That's doable. But I like the mentions of 4/15 and how it has affected Joe. Readers will be wondering if I don't mention it. Pink elephant in the room. Must figure out how to reconcile all this.
3. Switching over to Katie's pov now feels like it took too long. Maybe if I introduce her sooner that will give us the chance to know her, care and place her story in advance of her having to be concerned with HD. It might also help "space out" Joe's story over time more. I could make the kids a bit younger at the beginning of the story, allow for more time to go by before mention of B&E (and first mention of 4/15). I like that.
4. Not taking Joe all the way to end stage. I think I want to leave him vulnerable, in full courage, no longer able to walk or talk much (think Meghan).
5. Joe's mother, Ruth. Maybe we should be hearing from her. Make this a true generational story. Ruth's story with HD is one of ignorance, shame, isolation. I like this idea of Ruth, Joe, and Katie chapters to portray the different phases of HD: Nursing home/late stage; diagnosis/early and middle years; at risk/gene status questioning/symptom hunting. But man, that scares the shit out of me because that's A TON more work that I haven't even imagined yet.
Let's say that Joe's story drives the narrative. He's the powerhouse of this book, so keep going with his story. Maybe imagine Ruth and Katie separately and write their chapters as smaller vignettes aimed at revealing the generational tentacles of HD, how this is Joe's story but it is a repeating tale.
Thinking of that family tree again. Shaded circles and squares....
I'm concerned about this book on a number of structural levels. Let's list them here on paper so they're not all knocking around in my head all day.
1. I think it takes too long to get Joe diagnosed.
2. Mentions of 4/15/13, Boston Marathon, makes this all happening in present day. If I want to advance Joe's HD at all, even assuming he's at least 7 years in from page 1, we have to go into the future. At least 3 years, probably 5? Do you want to write about these characters in 2016, 2018? Is that too weird? You can drop out all reference to 4/15, but then the Red Sox references to post season play will have to jibe with previous seasons. That's doable. But I like the mentions of 4/15 and how it has affected Joe. Readers will be wondering if I don't mention it. Pink elephant in the room. Must figure out how to reconcile all this.
3. Switching over to Katie's pov now feels like it took too long. Maybe if I introduce her sooner that will give us the chance to know her, care and place her story in advance of her having to be concerned with HD. It might also help "space out" Joe's story over time more. I could make the kids a bit younger at the beginning of the story, allow for more time to go by before mention of B&E (and first mention of 4/15). I like that.
4. Not taking Joe all the way to end stage. I think I want to leave him vulnerable, in full courage, no longer able to walk or talk much (think Meghan).
5. Joe's mother, Ruth. Maybe we should be hearing from her. Make this a true generational story. Ruth's story with HD is one of ignorance, shame, isolation. I like this idea of Ruth, Joe, and Katie chapters to portray the different phases of HD: Nursing home/late stage; diagnosis/early and middle years; at risk/gene status questioning/symptom hunting. But man, that scares the shit out of me because that's A TON more work that I haven't even imagined yet.
Let's say that Joe's story drives the narrative. He's the powerhouse of this book, so keep going with his story. Maybe imagine Ruth and Katie separately and write their chapters as smaller vignettes aimed at revealing the generational tentacles of HD, how this is Joe's story but it is a repeating tale.
Thinking of that family tree again. Shaded circles and squares....
September 26, 2013
Chapter 7, Book # 4
A page taken from my writing journal, 9/17/13
Joe and Rosie are at MGH in Boston, heading into the Wang Building. Joe has been to the ER at MGH while on duty many times, but never in the Wang, never up the elevator. He was referred by his PCP to a neurologist, to a "Movement Specialist." Seems like a lot of fuss over a bad knee. But he's going. He's going for Rosie. She made the appointment.
Here we go into the meat of the story, Lisa. It feels like it took a long freakin time to get here, and there is still a long way to go. Keep going the way you're going. I think the thing that has you worried is fitting Katie in. She's essential. The kids need their experience and voice represented in this book. Huntington's Disease is a family disease. It affects everyone, every generation. But how will I give Katie enough to make her important and yet not a distraction? Her story needs to stand alone, and then it needs to find interplay, connection with her dad's story. How will their journeys intersect and impact each other?
I'm not there yet, so all this worrying is about something that hasn't happened yet. Now you are with Joe, and he is at the neurologist at MGH, and that MUST happen no matter what. So go there with him, Lisa, and find out what happens. Be open, be vulnerable. See it, feel it, moment to moment, and infuse it with real information from your research. Tell the truth.
Joe and Rosie are at MGH in Boston, heading into the Wang Building. Joe has been to the ER at MGH while on duty many times, but never in the Wang, never up the elevator. He was referred by his PCP to a neurologist, to a "Movement Specialist." Seems like a lot of fuss over a bad knee. But he's going. He's going for Rosie. She made the appointment.
Here we go into the meat of the story, Lisa. It feels like it took a long freakin time to get here, and there is still a long way to go. Keep going the way you're going. I think the thing that has you worried is fitting Katie in. She's essential. The kids need their experience and voice represented in this book. Huntington's Disease is a family disease. It affects everyone, every generation. But how will I give Katie enough to make her important and yet not a distraction? Her story needs to stand alone, and then it needs to find interplay, connection with her dad's story. How will their journeys intersect and impact each other?
I'm not there yet, so all this worrying is about something that hasn't happened yet. Now you are with Joe, and he is at the neurologist at MGH, and that MUST happen no matter what. So go there with him, Lisa, and find out what happens. Be open, be vulnerable. See it, feel it, moment to moment, and infuse it with real information from your research. Tell the truth.
