Guest Post by Khara House: Knowing What’s Real

Please welcome Khara House to The Writerly Life.

I met Khara through a platform challenge last spring, and I continue to be amazed by her poetry, her social media savvy, her wit, and intelligence. Khara is a dynamo poet, but today, she shares some wisdom about creating fictional characters. Thanks, Khara!

Knowing What’s Real

I recently chatted with a fellow fiction-writing friend about the nature of character creation. What we mutually determined was that writing fictional characters is almost a form of insanity. We get busy crawling into the skin of strangers, listening to their voices as we let them take over our heads and speak to us, and through us, in ways you’d be in serious trouble if you let it happen out loud! The only difference is that, if insane, we’d be creating illusions: in writing, we’re trying to create something real.

I took a class in undergrad on creative writing. For one assignment we were tasked with writing a narrative in which we paid a keen amount of attention to a moment, making that one moment last as long as possible. In my narrative, it was the story of a mother shopping with her young son, and the moment was the son dropping a jar of peaches. I received good marks on the story, but the professor’s one point of contention was that the mother didn’t seem authentic, because she didn’t “sound Black.”

“Mason Jars” by Josh LeGreve (chaos_j_a), via stock.xchng.hu

Maybe it’s important for me to point out that I am a Black writer here. But in that moment, I had never really thought of myself as “a Black writer.” I was just “a writer.” But because I was a Black writer, my professor had thought that my mother character was Black. And I think, in my mind, at some points I’d wanted her to be Black, too, or at least a reflection of my own mother. We couldn’t figure out where things had gone wrong in that depiction—her words were fine, her actions believable. And then it struck me, and I pointed out, “You know, I don’t think my mom ever bought a glass jar of peaches. We bought cans.” I hadn’t thought enough about who my character was, and because of that, some of the details created a conflict of understanding. It was nothing my character said that betrayed who or what she was: it was in the details.

One of the activities I gave a poetry class I taught was to write a character-I poem, in which they created a “new self” as the speaker and enveloped themselves in that character’s world. It’s a challenge, to let those new voices speak inside ourselves. It’s also a ton of fun. And the more we allow ourselves to be wrapped up in the worlds of the people we create, the more realistic they’ll be, whether we’re writers crafting Black or Hispanic or Asian or Middle Eastern characters, or any other creation. Often the authenticity is in the details—a mason jar instead of a can, a cul-de-sac or a lawn or a cement sidewalk or an orange tree in the backyard. A lock of hair or a loc. Bananas or plantains. Finding out what’s real for our characters is often more than what we have them say, or even what they do. Often, it’s in the details, just like the devil. And the devil of it is, we can make or break, solidify or shatter, a fictional reality just by adding or withholding that one right, or wrong, detail.

These days, when I go about creating characters, I’ll create a full dossier for each one. I interview them. I talk to them. I create the towns where they grew up. I talk about their pets and their favorite toys. I get a sense of who they are in as much detail as possible. I create listed details for their hair. I’ll interview their neighbors. I get to know all the details of their lives before I put their first words on the page. So by the time I’m writing them, I know not only the character inside and out …

I know, with absolute certainty, what’s real.

Call to Action: I encourage you to give the “character-I” activity a try. Either as a poem or prose, write a piece in which you engage with the details of a character’s life you’ve created. Don’t only envelop yourself in who he or she is … wrap yourself up in the details of his or her world. Learn to live in your characters’ skins, and discover for yourself what is “real” again!

Khara House

About Khara

Khara House is a poet, freelance writer, and educator. Originally from Pennsylvania, she currently lives in Arizona, where she teaches First-Year Composition at the university-level. Visit and learn more about Khara online at www.kharahouse.com.

Monday Discovery—Link to Mixed Metaphor: “Intersections”

Today’s discovery?

I’m keeping it in the family and sharing the link to my daughter-in-law Larissa Parson‘s blog entry, “Intersections,” posted Friday, September 7.  She doesn’t get to post as often as she would like. Here’s why:

Larissa teaches English at a private high school in San Francisco. And she and husband Geoff (my husband’s son) are the proud parents of 20-month-old twin boys!

Busy? 

You bet. But occasionally, she shares her life and wisdom on her Mixed Metaphor blog. In this most recent post, she writes about how her teaching life intersects with her life as a mom–how each experience informs the other. Here’s a taste:

Communicating with our children in a respectful way about what the boundaries and rules are and are not frees them to explore their world. And I’ve seen for myself how amazingly effective this practice is. I’ve become the unhelpful mommy on the playground; if they can’t get on it themselves, they can’t do it (Except for swings. Because swings are so fun.) . . . .

I want to try to bring the same empathy I practice with my kids to my classroom. I want to meet students where they are and understand what’s frustrating about a tough text, and celebrate what’s great about understanding a tough text . . . .

Here are Larissa’s primary “informers” at home.

Twins, wrestling
Photo courtesy of Larissa Parson

Kitty on the—Not the Keys!

Say Hello to Oliver

This is where we found him hiding the other day when we were trying to round him up for the last dose of his antibiotic, which had been a hellacious ten-day experience for Oliver and for us.

Can you guess where he is?

Oliver Wilson in hiding

That’s right.

He’s inside the grand piano. We had searched for him all morning. Looked everywhere, even in rooms whose doors we knew we had closed. Under couches and beds. In closets. And then, after an hour of searching, when we were just about to decide Oliver had vaporized, my husband called me to the living room.

“What?” I yelled.

“You have to see this.” And there the cat was, looking smug. But not for long. All it took was a bass note or two, and he was off again, and we were chasing him.

Oliver’s Tale

Oliver’s a very bright cat. He’s also neurotic, a “one-person” kitty if ever there was one. But he has his reasons.

Eleven years ago this summer, we found an eight-week-old kitten, drenched and shivering, under the shrubbery between our house and our neighbor’s late one night after a thunderstorm. If we hadn’t had dinner guests that night, we wouldn’t have walked outside at 10:30, but we were saying goodbye to them. My friend heard the kitten’s crying and convinced me that it was indeed a kitten, not one of our older cats. My husband and I brought him in, dried him off, found a box and lined it with a towel or two, and gave him–yes–a saucer of milk.

We put signs up around the neighborhood, but nobody claimed him. I was preparing, after a week, to take him to the shelter. I didn’t want to. I was sad. And maybe I got just weepy enough because my husband finally said, “You want to keep him, don’t you?”

And so we did. We named him Oliver. We were both English teachers. The cat was a foundling. What else would we have called him?

The Rest Is History

Oliver has an unfortunate personality. I believe he was traumatized as a kitten because he’s terrified of small children. He’s also terrified of thunder. He owns me. Totally. If I’m working and he wants lap time, he’ll do his best to shove the laptop aside. (He weighs 18 pounds, so don’t underestimate his strength.) He has beautiful blue eyes and Siamese coloring, but clearly, his daddy was a traveling man. For a while after we found him, we saw other cats around the neighborhood with similar coloring but with a white foot or two or a white splash across the face. Most likely, an entire litter was dropped off near our house that night. How does somebody do something like that?

Tonight, Oliver is at the veterinarian’s–again–the third time in six weeks. He has a chronic infection. He’ll have a procedure tomorrow, and maybe by Saturday morning, we can bring him home and begin–again–the chases and the captures and the trauma of giving him his meds. But each time, after a little while, he forgives. He’s back in my lap, pawing at the computer, wanting my exclusive attention. And he gets it.

Sometimes I wish Oliver could talk. I wish he could tell me the story of that night eleven years ago from his perspective: his fear, his hunger, his cringing at the hands of whoever threw him out in the rain. Since he can’t, I have to imagine it.

Funny, isn’t it, how animals get under your skin? Tell me your stories! Or better yet, let your pet tell it . . .