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Last week when my characters wrote back to me I could finally hear a couple of distinct voices calling out to me. This is proving to be a great plotting exercise for me. Here are this week's letters to my characters.



Dear Plant Kid,
First off, some sympathy that Nan and your grandmother seem to be making you feel bad all the time. Sometimes grownups can be mean without even trying. I'm sure they both love you very much.

I want to hear more about how your dad died but I understand if you don't feel like talking about it right now. Maybe you could just tell me about that thing you found that used to belong to your dad. I don't want to fall into cliche territory here and it seems highly possible, considering your situation and all.

And what about Mr. Mac? You haven't talked about him in a while.

Yesterday I wrote these letters to my characters. Today they wrote back and boy did they surprise me!

Dear Curious Author
Here's the important stuff you need to know about my dad.

#1 He died before I was born. Do I even have to tell you how much that stinks?

#2 According to Nan he was a cross between some kind of super hero and a movie star. "A perfect male specimen." That's just the way she says it. Right after she tells me how wimpy and skinny and pathetic I am. She says she can't even believe he could be my father because we're nothing alike. Do I even have to tell you how crappy that makes me feel?

#3 According to my grandmother, he did everything perfectly right the first time. Never made any mistakes. Do I even have to tall you what kind of pressure that puts on me?

#4 It was an accident, the way he died. I'm not going into all the details right now but here's the thing, he died right here, in the very house we still live in. Every time I walk past the place where it happened, I shiver. Not the kind of shiver because I feel like there's a ghost nearby (boy wouldn't that be cool?) But the creepy kind of shiver of not believing that there's something broken that my grandmother doesn't want to fix because it was the last thing my father touched. Do I even have to tell you weird that is?

#5 This last one is a secret so you can't tell my grandmother or Nan. But I found something that belonged to my dad. It was out in the garage and hidden behind a bunch of junk my grandmother won't touch. I knew it was his even before I saw his name on the inside cover. I never told anyone I found it before. Never. It's all mine. Do I even have to tell you how great that feels?

Signed
Plant Kid




Dear Author,
Every day I had with my sister was a happy memory. The problem is there weren't enough of them. But here's my favorite.

The day my mom came home from the hospital with my baby sister it was raining. Pouring buckets. Mrs. Winslow from next door was taking care of me. Mom pushed open the front door, cursing about the rain and being all wet and stuff. She put the baby carrier down as soon as she walked in the door and said she needed a hot shower and dry clothes. She didn't even care that  my new sister was absolutely soaked. Just left her sitting there, crying, and walked away.

So me and Mrs. Winslow took her over to the sink and gave her a warm bath. Mrs. Winslow showed me how to use towels in the sink with a rolled up one for behind her neck. She showed me how to wash her, real gentle like, so it wouldn't hurt. And then she showed me how dry her and put a diaper back on until she was all clean and warm and pink and dry.

Later, after Mrs. Winslow went home, I sat on the couch, holding my baby sister and watching her sleep. Every once in a while she would do a little hiccup in her breathing and then let out a sigh. I held her for a long time, even after I could feel my arm falling asleep, and I promised her I would always keep her safe.

Signed,
Frankie, the kid who broke his promise





Dear Author,
Sister #1 is like you in that she's a goody-two-shoes, (well except for that one medical incident). At least  that's what she wants you to think. And she has hole in her heart that she thinks is going to be filled when she finds her dad. And she's going to be disappointed.

Sister #2 is like you in that she is afraid for people to see who she really is. And so she's pretty much an expert in the "fake it til you make it" way of thinking. And she really loves dogs. Great, big dogs.

Signed,
The Sisters

Dear Plant Kid,
Tell me about what happened to your dad. How did he die? How was your life different before he died?

Signed,
One curious author





Dear Frankie,
Were you trying to shock me with that comment about how you killed your sister? Because it's didn't work.

I'm not shocked and you didn't kill your sister. Forget what your mother and her loser boyfriend of the week are telling you. It's not your fault. You didn't pull out a gun and shoot her or sit on her in the bathtub until she drowned. It was an accident. Really.

Can you tell me one happy memory about you and your sister? Just one?

Signed,
Author who wants to be sure she gets your story straight





Dear Sisters,
Okay, so I get your point about the medical procedure one you had to have. And I get that it's a great big secret. I'm even pretty sure I know which one of you had to have it.

But so what? What does that have to do with the story we're trying to tell here?

Signed,
Author who is trying to see what parts of each of you are inside of me

A few days ago I wrote some letters to characters. Today they write back.

Just a few recent letters to my characters prompted by scenes I am playing around with at the moment.



Dear Plant Kid,
I fell in love with you all over again when you found the gopher snake. Of course Gran wasn't nearly as pleased as me. Did you find it yet?



Dear Max,
You may have just been trumped by a dead sister but it's a temporary situation I'm sure. I suggest you stay where you are for the time being. I know it's not the home of your heart but you're safer there and that makes it easier for your boy when he does what he has to do next.



Dear Sister #1,
I thought what you did that night was his choice, not yours. You're not who I thought you were and that makes you a very interesting character. I don't like you as much as I did when we started this journey, but that's okay. I don't have to like you, I just have to believe you. And I do.



Dear Sister #2,
You're the strong one. I know it doesn't feel that way at the moment but I can already tell you are the strongest of the pair of you. It's not just what you've had to endure, although that has certainly added to your strength. You're also very talented but I wish you wouldn't hide your talent in those books. It's okay to share.

Dear Author Who Needs to Grow A Pair,

I've got three things for you:

First off, habits are funny things. Sometimes you don't even realize something's becoming a habit until you've been doing it for years. And if someone asked you why you do some of the things you do, you might not even be able to pinpoint where it all started. Maybe that matters. Maybe it doesn't.

Second, maybe I did wonder about my mom when I was a little kid. I don't remember. But since no one could ever tell me much about her I really didn't care. Really. But Tate, well there he was right on the television set doing all sorts of crazy things in airplanes and somehow that made him more real to me. The kind of real that had me hoping he'd walk through the front door any minute and tell me the crash was just one more crazy stunt he'd pulled off.

Third, quit thinking like a girl.

Signed,
Flyboy

Dear Flyboy,

It's been a while since I wrote you. I've missed you but I didn't know what to say to you anymore. I've felt like I've been talking in circles in your story for years and just not getting anywhere and, to tell you the truth, I was starting to wonder if it was worth the trouble. I was starting to think that maybe your story was just for me and that maybe I ought to let it go.

Then along came April and National Poetry month. I wrote all these poems about my dad that I never knew and I started thinking about how much you and I were alike, how many questions we both have about our pasts.

April surprised me with all the feelings that got stirred up inside of me. Things I didn't think bothered me started to bother me something fierce and things that should have pissed me off didn't seem like such a big deal. Hurts I thought I had buried a long time ago came bubbling up to the surface to hurt me all over again but by the end of the month I had a few more answers than I'd had at the beginning of the month and even if I didn't like the answers, well, they were my answers to my story.

Which got me thinking about you and Wilson and Tate and how, if I'm going to tell your story, the right story, I'm going to have to hurt you. A lot.

I'll just go ahead an apologize for that now.

Signed,
me

Dear Flyboy,
Thanks for being such a good sport about the name change thing. I realized you'd had that other name for over 20 years and really, it was hard for me to see the new character you'd become while you were lugging around that old name. I let you keep your last name though. It's the only remnant of my silliness when once everyone in the book had a name that was connected to airplanes.

And you'll notice I upgraded you from a bike to a car of your own. Hopefully this will help people who were thinking you were younger than you were. I know how much you hated that. But here's the thing about the car, how can someone who is so careful when he's flying be such a demon on the road? How many speeding tickets have you gotten already and how come Wilson lets you keep driving?

I'm rethinking the whole idea of Wilson's dad and the stroke. I'm thinking that may be a little extreme to cover in the course of the story without it becoming THE story. I'd like to get rid of him completely but I'm not sure what I'd do without him, why Wilson would pack you guys up to move and all that.

Yeah, I know I'm rambling and you're probably wondering why I'm really writing this letter. Here's what I need to know. This story of yours is all about you going off on this great big search. That's fine. Interesting even. But what I gotta know is why now? What happened with Wilson to make it so all fired important that you go searching now?

Why is today different from yesterday?

Signed,
Author expecting you to throw me a curve ball

Dear Flyboy,

I'm going to turn you upside down and see what happens. You've always been in control. Always held back. Never wanted to let me see you cut loose. Well guess what? All that's about to change. Let's see how you like it now

Signed,

The other day I wrote these letters to my characters.

Today they wrote back.

Dear Author Who Has Trouble Recognizing Happy Herself,

Happy is easy. It's when I fly. Anytime I take to the air I feel happy and if something is pissing me off, I forget about it as soon as I grip the yoke. Most of the time anyway. Perfect is tougher. The day I flew my first solo was pretty close. But I think the day Edna took me up in her old Stearman was about as close to perfect as I can remember. One of those lazy summer days where for once there wasn't a pile of something gone wrong waiting for me on the ground. The sky was clear and still and I gazed out at it from between the flying wires and wanted us to keep on flying forever. The pockety-pockety sound of the engine was better than anything I had on my playlist.

Yeah, I'd say that day was pretty close to perfect. Until we landed.

Signed,
Flyboy

Dear Author,

Here's the thing about bugs. If you stand still in front of a plant and just wait, the bugs will come.  Big fuzzy Carpenter bees that make you want to reach out and touch their velvet fur. Hover flies that try to mimic bees. Katydids that blend in so well with the leaves that if you blink, they disappear. Over on the milkweed bright yellow aphids cover the plant and bring the ladybugs in for a feast. If you wait long enough you might see the ants band together to protect their aphids from the ladybug.

Once you stop using all that chemical junk in a yard it's like a whole new universe moves in. Some bugs live. Some bugs die. But things happen the way they're supposed to happen, in a way that makes sense if you apply nature's logic.

When the rest of my world is turned upside down, it makes me feel better to see the garden balancing things out.

Signed,
Plant Kid

Dear Author,

The creep knows what he did. I'm not talking about it until I know he's locked up or dead. And I'm not lying about my sister. It's plain and simple. I told you what happened. I told you it was my fault. Would I admit something like that if it wasn't the truth?

Max wants to know how you are going to make sure to keep him safe.

Max's friend

Dear Author,

That's not a chip on my shoulder. That's a pile of scars from every time my dad hauled off and hit me for no reason at all.

Signed,
Cooper

Dear Flyboy,
I wonder what a perfect day is like for you or would you even recognize it when you saw it? Are you so busy feeling sorry for yourself that you've forgotten what it is like to be happy? Can you tell me about one absolutely perfect day in your life?

Signed,
Author in search of happy days

Dear Plant Kid,
It is plants you're obsessed with right and not bugs? Because I sense you going off to the buggy world a little bit too much. I know if you have plants you have bugs but can we just think of them as spices and not a main course?

Signed,
Author a little bit bug obsessed herself

Dear Max,
Even though you've been pushed to third or fourth on my list doesn't mean I'm not still thinking about you, jotting down ideas as they come to me. But you know where I'm stumped. You have to tell me what really happened with your mother's boyfriend and you have to quit lying to me about your sister.

Signed,
Author afraid of what you are going to tell her

Dear Cooper,
Welcome to the part of my world where I talk about you before you are totally real to me. I'm not sure where fall on my list behind Flyboy. We'll just have to see how quickly you come to life. What I want to know about you first is where did you get that giant chip on your shoulder? I already know what you do about it but I want to go back to where it all began.

Signed,
Author who has no idea where you came from only what you did that started it all
 

In response to the letters I wrote to characters yesterday, the characters have written back. Yesterday was one of those wonderful writing times when I started writing the letter to Flyboy and suddenly had several plots items fall nicely into place. It opened the door to a couple of great scenes and some nice potential conflict. I love it when my weird process works!

Dear Clueless Author,

Did you see the size of that dog? He was catching steel-belted tires in mid-air. There is no way I am going anywhere near that monster.

So you're telling me that you can't remember the dog my babysitter had when we lived in Iowa? The one the who grabbed hold of my ankle when I was on the swing and decided to use me as a pull-toy? If Wilson hadn't come home when he did and turned the hose on that wolf I might have lost my foot. How is it that you can remember what altitude I'm supposed to be flying but you can't remember something as important as me getting bit by a dog? Sometimes I wonder why you even want to tell my story.

Okay, maybe you need glasses. That would explain the dog thing. Did you take a look at Spencer? I mean, she had a tank top on so tight that she wasn't leaving much to the imagination, if you know what I mean. I took one look at her . . .  well, at her and I decided that keeping the truck between her and a certain part of my anatomy was probably a good thing. I have no idea who Edna is but please don't make her look anything like Spencer, will ya?

I don't know what's in the wallet because, as you might remember if your brain wasn't fried from being old, I dropped the wallet when that security guard caught me and it's still sitting under a plane at the airport. At least I hope that's where it is.

Now you have to figure out how I can convince Spencer to take me back there so I can get the wallet before someone else finds it. And while you're at it can you make sure Wilson isn't too pissed off at me whenever I finally do get back home again?

Signed,
Flyboy
 

Dear Author,
You know those bugs you found? Well they're important. Especially the one that creeps you out. If I were you I'd make sure to keep checking the yarrow for bugs and taking pictures. I'm not sure what I'm going to need them for but I'm pretty sure they're important to my story.

Here's the thing. Summer time, nice weather like you're having now, well it might seem like the perfect time for working on my story but you'd be wrong. Not a time to be moving those native plants around. It's too hot and there's no water and everything's in a state of rest. That's okay. Underneath those 4 inches mulch there's a lot happening. Worms are churning up the soil something fierce. Tap roots are finding their way deeper and deeper underground, looking for that water table. And all kinds of micro organisms are banding together like a family of their own to make the soil healthier than it was before. Stuff's happening above ground too.  Seeds are ripening and then falling out of the flowers and onto the mulch where they'll wait (if the birds don't get 'em first) for the rains to come and start everything a'growing again.

So it's okay to wait.

But yeah, there's still a big old hole in the roof, almost as big as the one in my family. Nan, she waltzes in and out of our lives whenever she wants. Can't seem to find a place to sink her roots and grow. Grammy, well she likes to pretend Nan's okay but I know better.

Signed,
Plant Kid

Dear Writer Person,

I'm waiting with the gypsy lady until you have time for me. Can't figure there's any reason to speak up when I know you're not going to listen. I'm used to being invisible. I like it when people don't notice me. Less chances of getting hurt that way.

Signed,
Max's friend

It's been a while so I thought I would check in with each of my characters via letters.

As always, they surprise me.


Dear Flyboy,

How is it that I never knew you were afraid of dogs? When did that happen? I thought you and Zero were going to be the best of friends. And why won't you get in the darn truck? Spencer is going to lose patience with you and that is not going to settle well with Edna. You need Spencer on your side or haven't you figured that out yet?

Also, I really need to know what you found when you looked in the wallet. You did remember to pick the wallet up when you dropped it at the airport right? When the security guard was chasing you? Because if you don't have it I don't know who does and boy is that going to cause some problems.

Signed,
the author who only just this second realized you dropped the wallet. Whoa! Thank you for that plot development.

Dear Plant Kid,

I hear you talking to me every day and I'm really sorry I haven't had time to sit with you lately. I agree that the time to be working on your book. I think of you when I pull weeds or collect seeds or take pictures of the various bugs I'm finding in the garden. And yes, now that I better understand the real theme in Flyboy's story I understand that the two of you are completely different and have completely different stories to tell.

But one thing I still don't understand about you...are you living with your sister or your grandmother or both? And is there still a hole in the roof?

Signed,
the author who thinks you have at least three different stories to tell her.

Dear Max,

Where did you go? I haven't heard from you in a long time and I fear that Cooper has moved into your place in the WIP line. Janie might be there in front too. Along with the non-fiction projects. If you don't speak up I fear you disappearing completely.

Signed,
Me

Flyboy has written back, in response to this letter.

Dear Author,

First of all, Spencer needs to mind her own business. I didn't ask her to poke her nose into what is going on with me and Wilson and D. How am I supposed to feel when I come from THE WORST DAY IN MY LIFE EVER and Spencer perched on the side of the bed like a little bird spooning who knows what kind of elixir into D's mouth and then laughing at Wilson's jokes? Even Nurse Lemon has fallen under her spell. Well not me.

D doesn't have to talk to make it clear how he feels about me. Plus he throws things at me. Pillows and books I can handle but the other day he threw a baseball at my head. How would that make YOU feel?

As for Wilson, maybe he could ask me how I feel once in a while?

I will not talk to you about the dog at all. AT ALL. Do you understand?

Signed,
Flyboy

In response to yesterday's letters to characters they, in return, have written back.



Dear Author,
There's that saying about hiding in plain sight and how it makes it harder for people to find you. Do you think that's true?

Letting people know what I am really feeling gives them power. Giving away your power is never a good thing. Trust me on that.

Signed,
Flyboy

Dear Author,
I'm a woman in a man's world, of course I'm tough. But I'm a mom too. Don't forget about that.

Signed,
Edna
 

Dear Author,
Have you ever done something and wished you could undo it? Have you ever had to wake up every single day of your life and sit across the breakfast table from someone who reminds you, just by his appearance about how much you screwed up?

Any guts I had rotted out years ago. You know that. I know I was an idiot many times over. I know he is going to find out the truth. And I know that everything is going to hit the proverbial fan when he does.

Signed,
Flyboy's dad

Dear Author,
If you would give me a name I might tell you where I am. Until then you're out of luck.

Signed,
Girl
 

Dear Author,
I don't know anything about a leather jacket but I did find a box. A box I don't think I was supposed to find. And I am pissed off big time about what I found inside.

I'm not really sure what to do about it. It's times like this I really wish I had a mom or a sister or someone that I could talk to about this stuff. I'm really sick and tired of people telling me to be grateful for what I've got because crap, there are a lot of things I don't have or know that are more important to me than what I do. But I'm a kid and I'm not supposed to think like that. I'm supposed to suck it up and be happy I'm not in some foster home or living on the street or off in some foreign country with bombs going off all around me.

Well screw all that. I'm 16 years old and I'm self-centered spoiled brat.

Deal with it.

Signed,
Flyboy

Dear Author,
Mr. Mac gave me one of his mini lectures the other day. This one was on plants that go along for hundreds of years thinking they're called one thing and then wham, they wake up in the morning and they're called something else. Did you know they could do genetic testing on plants, like a DNA test they do on people to find out if they're related? Anyway, Mr. Mac says while it might be nice to know which plant is related to another one it really doesn't make any difference to the plant. It's either gonna grow or not grow and calling it something different isn't going to change a thing.

Signed,
Plant kid

Dear Author,
When I was a little kid, I mean really little, I used to think that going for a ride in the car was this great big adventure. Even if all my mom or dad was going to do was race down to the quick mart for diapers for my sister, I wanted to go. I was good at pretending we were heading for the moon instead.

I was pretty good at getting my way too. I had the cute face and the pouting face and the please don't you know I'm the best kid in the entire world face down to a science. It was all in the timing. Ask too soon and the answer would still be no. Ask too early and my mom would tell me to quit being a goofball. But if I asked just right I had a pretty good chance of making one of them say yes.

Now I've just got one face. It's just the here I am what do you want me to do now kind of face. Nothing special.

And I don't ask anyone for anything anymore.

Signed,
Frankie

Dear Flyboy,
Find the leather jacket. That's all I can tell you right now and you probably won't like me very much when you do but trust me, you need to find the leather jacket.

Signed,
Author who knows the secret

Dear Plant kid,
That new project at school, the family tree. Sorry. I'd like to tell you that it will all work out just fine but honestly, I haven't a clue.

Signed,
Author with questions of her own




Deat Frankie,
We are at an absolute stop. I mean it. A complete and utter stop until you fess up and tell me what happened to your sister. I mean what REALLY happened. Not what you keep telling everyone else.

Signed,
Author sitting in the dark

Dear Author Who Should Have Known Better,
Remembering things I care about is easy. It's all that other useless crap that's hard. Tell me how diagramming sentences or conjugating French verbs is ever going to help me fly a plane? When I'm flying, I don't much care how clean my room is or whether or not I made the bed. It doesn't matter. Nothing else matters. Just flying.

About the dog. There's always a dog.  Haven't you figured that out yet? Madison, Zero, Max, Guster, Fuzzbucket and Baron. There's probably more. But there's always a dog.

Signed, 
Flyboy




Dear Needy Author,
I need lots of things. I need to know why my mom never talked about my siser but why she sent me here to live just before she died but I probably never will on account of the fact that my mom is dead now. I need to know all the things Mr. Mac knows about native plants but I probably never will on account of that thing that happened that started the whole story in the first place. I need to fit somewhere, anywhere. I'm tried of being told to "bloom wherever I'm planted" because planting something means setting down roots and roots tie you to something, someone and near as I can figure, I'm not tied to anything.

No roots makes it kind of hard to stand up for anything at all.

Signed, 
Plant kid



Dear Nosy Author,
The trouble with little sisters is they're so darn cute all the time. Or they think they are. Or everyone around you thinks they are.  Do you have any idea how many times someone pushed me out of the way so they could get to her and go gaga over her stupid baby noises?  

Lots of times it's the same thing with dogs. But different. Or maybe it's me that's different now. I won't make the same mistake with Max that I made with my little sister.

Of course I probably won't get the chance, either.

Signed, 
Frankie

Dear Flyboy,
When did you get so smart?

Yes, writing about you will help me but what I am supposed to do when the siren goes off and there's no one in the seat next to me to bring me out of the spin before I crash?

No, don't answer that.

Instead, tell me how it is that you can remember what all those lights and dials and meters mean on the dashboard of an airplane, you can calculate things like the weight of fuel and passengers and and baggage how it effects lift-off and landings, you can plot a long cross-country flight that will take you an entire day and 3 fuel stops,  but you can't remember to feed the dog?

Signed,
Author who didn't even know you had a dog

Dear Plant Kid,
Your voice changed. You're no longer the thoughtful, introspective kid I've been writing about and I don't know if that's good or bad. I'm trying not to think about it but I can't help it. I noticed it a little in the Teaser Tuesday post and now I am wondering if there's a smart aleck trying to get out. Oh gosh I hope not. I can't do smart aleck. Not for a whole book. And I don't see a smart aleck as being the nature nurturing soul that I thought you were.

Maybe it will be different once you've finished composting.

If I work on your book I am saying that I trust myself enough to write a book that has no plot, no problem, no purpose with the hope that those needed pieces will appear by the time I reach the end. I don't know if I trust you that much. I already know you don't care. I already know that you don't need me as much as I need you. And maybe that's part of the problem. You don't need me at all. Flyboy needs me. Frankie and Max need me. But, you're so darn self-sufficient that you don't need me or Mr. Mac or your sister or anyone. I don't know how old you are but you've already got more control of your life than I can ever hope to find.

There are lots of things you don't know but you don't even care that you don't know them.

Signed,
Author who needs to be needed

Dear Frankie,
At last, you have a NAME! I'm so happy. I've been wondering if it might be you but I've been a bit afraid of going back to your story. I mean, the stuff that happens to Max is bad enough but the stuff with your sister . . . <gulp> Even as backstory it's not going to be pretty or fun. I've seen books written about the sort of thing that happened to your sister and I've seen books written about the sort of thing that happens to Max. How can I make it different?

Of course here is where I start to second guess myself. Maybe it is all going to be too icky and depressing and maybe people don't want to read about that kind of stuff. Or not anymore. I can psych myself out by reading articles about too many depressing stories for kids today or why can't there be any happy families in children's books. The more I read those sorts of things the less I think anyone wants to hear about your story. And I can't help but wonder if dark, hard hitting books with issues at the core, are they the kind of books that people reread again and again? I'm thinking maybe not.

I know you said you didn't want to talk about it but you know we have to. Now is as good a time as any. Frankie, tell me about your sister.

Signed,
Author stocking up on tissues

Dear Author Who Isn't Really Empty,
I know how you feel. I know, people say that all the time but really, I know just how you feel. I remember when my CFI had me try a stall for the first time. It was a good flying day, clear sky, no wind. The 152 was humming along. Okay, humming is too nice a word. Flying in the 152 is like being locked in a metal shed with a lawnmower going full blast. But that's okay. I liked the noise. I liked that I had to concentrate on the voice in the headset for any directions from my CFI in the seat next to me. I liked feeling the power of plane vibrate all around me. With my hands on the yoke and my feet on the rudders I could feel the airplane hum up from my fingertips and down to my toes. It made my whole body come alive. It made me FEEL alive. 

Stall practice was the only time I've been flying that I felt like I might need a barf bag. 

First we were drifting then all at once the stall horn blared and the right wing dropped. I thought for sure we were going to go into a spin and I was praying my CFI would be able to yank us out of it before we crashed. 

Maybe you think my CFI was crazy to have me do something that sounds so dangerous but the way he explained it to me made sense. He said you do stalls in practice so you can avoid them in real life. 

So maybe writing my story is like stall practice for you. 

What do you think?

Signed,
Flyboy

Dear Author With Too Many Ideas,

No problem, I understand. I'm composting right now. 

Signed,
Plant kid

Signed,
Frankie

Dear Flyboy,

You made me cry. I was okay until I got to the last couple of lines of your letter where you said:

I need you.
Isn't that enough?

And suddenly I was sitting at my desk bawling like a little kid. Do you know how many people I've said that to in my life? Do you know how many of them never said "yes?" Maybe it's all this therapy I'm doing lately or maybe I'm just finally peeling away enough of the layers of myself that I can see you there, waiting for me to find you. It's going to be so hard to write your story because yes, you are me.

You are the me that never knew my father and was always afraid to ask anyone any questions about him. You are the me that is filled with hundreds of questions about why I do the things I do and wondering if anyone else ever felt the same way I feel right this moment. You are the me that questions who makes us what we are, heredity or environment or some combination of the two. You are the me that doesn't laugh out loud and is always afraid of looking silly in front of other people. You are the me that is sure I am the only one in the entire history of the universe who ever did something wrong and can't forgive themselves for it.

To write your story means to lay myself wide open to feeling everything you feel.  It means actually allowing myself to FEEL. Do you know how many years I have spent not feeling things? Sigh. I suppose you do. Your story is going to rip me up in a lot of ways and what if I can't put myself back together again? You will turn me inside out and then everyone will be able to see who I really am and then, well, and then they might all turn away.

If I put myself out there for you like that and then your story falls apart, I don't know if I can handle it.

But I think the hardest thing about your story, the very hardest thing about writing your story, is that by the end of the book you are going to understand where you came from and what made you the person you are today. You are going to get answers to all those questions you jot down in that notebook you hide in your flight bag. You, Flyboy, are going to get to know all about your dad.

And me, I never will.

Signed,
Author with a hole in her heart

Dear Plant Kid,

I love writing about you and I love sharing plant knowledge but I really really need to know what you want. I have no title for your story, no names for most of the people in your story, no idea what your story is about and absolutely no idea what the point of the whole story is.

What do you want more than anything else in the world? Why can't you have it? What's getting in your way? What would happen if you got your deepest wish?

All the roses and oranges and friends and favors you do for Mr. Mac don't amount to a hill of beans if you can't make me want something for you.

Signed,
Author moving you to the bottom of the list, for now

Dear Lost boy,
I understand. Really I do. I want to remind that I did share the beginning of YOUR story in my Teaser Tuesday. I haven't done that for anyone else yet. I think you and Flyboy are neck and neck. I know more about his story than I do yours but I know more about yours than I do Plant kid's story.

There's another thing I've been thinking about with you. There's this kid who used to talk to me. His name was Frankie. Frankie grabbed me by the throat when I was driving one day and wanted to tell me about some terrible things. He had a sister. A sister with a secret. I saw Frankie's house and I saw where his mom worked and I saw a bunch of not-so-pretty things in Frankie's life. The last time I saw Frankie he was running, fast, away from something or someone. He hasn't spoken to me for over a year. Maybe longer.

Now I can't help but wonder, are you Frankie?

Signed,
Author who needs to read through her old notebooks
 
Want to read all the character letters grouped by character, in the order they were written? Letters to Flyboy ,  Letters to Plant Kid , Letters to Max's friend

Dear Author Who Can't Make Up Her Mind,
I'm going to tell you some things you already know and if it sounds like it's coming from you and not from me, remember how much of yourself you have poured into me.

I am you. I am the insecure, can't make his mind, why doesn't anyone love me you. I am the you who doesn't understand you are afraid to let people know how you feel, why you worry so much about what they will see in you and why you put up a wall that keep people at a distance. I am the you who can't sleep because of worrying all the time. I am the you who wants a family and doesn't feel like they deserve it.

Keep that in mind when it comes to telling my story. Trust yourself.

I need you to tell the truth about me because I'm too afraid to do it for myself. I need you to explain to people how I really feel about what my mother did and what I really remember about my dad. I need you to find a way to support me so that people don't freak out when they hear the whole story.

I need you.

Isn't that enough?

Signed,
Flyboy



Dear Insecure Author,
My sister? You know I think I remember my mom talking about a sister. They had a fight about something a long time ago, right after I was born and she went away and I stayed behind. I bet she wasn't so thrilled to see me show up on her doorstep after mom died, was she?

I do like the attic bedroom. I like being able to open the window and reach right out and pluck an orange off the tree. I like the way the mourning doves gather on the roof of the garage and peck around at the scraps of bread I throw out for them. I'm not so crazy about the way the stairs go straight up and the railing is a little wobbly. I'm afraid I'm going to fall and land at the bottom of the stairs on that metal grate for the furnace.

I'm mostly okay just hanging out with Mr. Mac and learning from him but I'm thinking me and my sister don't have a lot to say (except for when she's yelling at me.) I could use a friend my own age. Think you could work on that for me? There's this one kid at school, Benny, who seems okay. We worked together on the science project and he didn't think my worms were stupid at all. There's Alison too, but she's a girl and I don't want her to think I like her special like. Besides, her dad is the one with all those fancy roses so maybe I better not have much to do with her.

Signed,
Plant kid




Dear Person Who Keeps Ignoring Me Even Though Everyone Says You Should Be Writing About Me First, 

I am not talking to you anymore.
Not at all.
No.

I am not even going to tell you about what happened when I went to see Max.

Signed,
Lost boy 

 
Want to read all the character letters grouped by character, in the order they were written? Letters to Flyboy ,  Letters to Plant Kid , Letters to Max's friend

Dear Flyboy,
Remember that grandfather you had that I said was the reason you were moving and then I killed him because everyone convinced me there were too many people in the book? Remember him?

Well I don't think he's dead.

Signed,
Author returning to her original idea

Dear Plant kid,
You're right and I'm wrong. There, does that make you feel better? I hate it when I give my power away and that's exactly what I did. I am a social writer and I love LOVE LOVE talking about my books before they are actually books. I love to brainstorm and bounce things off of trusted friends. But the one thing I forget is that ideas are fragile and I need feedback that comes from a loving place.

I think part of the problem is that I don't have anyone to talk to about your book or any of the other books I am working on. I've lost my brainstorming partners so except for talking to you here, there's really no one else who wants to listen to me try on plots for size or help me figure our the motivation behind a certain character's actions.

I know writing is a lonely business but I need to talk to some people about you sometimes, someone other than you.
You should know that I have been thinking about you lately and where you live. I think it's your sister, a sister you hadn't seen in a long time for some reason. And the house looks a lot like the one I grew up in. How do you feel about an attic bedroom?

Signed,
Author grateful for second chances

Dear lost boy,
I'm sorry. I'm sure it's all my fault so go ahead and rant at me if you want.  All things considered, when you think about what went on that night on the OTHER side of the door, maybe being wet and cold and hungry was better after all?

What do you think?

Signed,
Author who hates hurting characters she loves

A reminder that you can read all the character letters grouped by character, in order, by following the link in the left sidebar.

Dear Author,
If I'm made up of pieces of you (looking for that reader connection you love to talk about so much) is it any wonder that I'm a serious kid? How much time did you spend when you were my age laughing and having fun and how much time did you spend in your room worrying about things you couldn't change? If you don't like what you see in me maybe you better quit using me as a mirror.

I can't remember the first time I went flying. Or the second or the third or many times after that. My dad, my NOW dad, told me that my real dad used to strap my carseat in the seat of the big P and take me just about everywhere with him, except for when he was filming. I think I remember flying somewhere for Christmas. I wanted to go to the North Pole and see Santa Claus and we went somewhere where the snow was piled up high on each side of the runway and there was barely enough room for the big P to touch down without jamming a wing into a snowdrift. We never found Santa but I remember drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows in some old shack while we waited for the weather to clear and listening to my dad play hangar trivia with his friends.

How does flying make me feel? How does writing make YOU feel? Flying makes me feel like I am alive and free and capable of doing almost anything, of being almost anything, even a good kid.

Signed,
Flyboy

Dear Author Who Let Someone Intimidate Her Away From My Story,
You tell me to find my own way and when I do, you get mad. You shouldn't talk about me. Not yet. You're not ready. That much is obvious. Yes, plants are boring to some people. There's so much that takes place underground and now you've let someone convince you that you don't have the skills to bring my story to the surface.

Maybe I was wrong to trust you with it.

But here's the thing, Mr. Mac says that sometimes we have to give people second and third chances. Sometimes even more chances than that because if you do that enough, well people will surprise you. But you have to believe they're going to surprise you. If you don't believe then it doesn't matter if you tell my story or not.

Signed,
Plant kid

Dear Author,
Today was a good day and then a bad day and then a really, really bad day.

I went to see my dad and told him all about Max and everything that's been going on. Then I went to see the gypsy lady but I got lost and ended up on the east side after dark. This big kid chased me for the longest time, I guess he thought I had some money (ha!) but I finally lost him. When I got home my mom had locked the front door and wouldn't let me so I spent the night on the front porch. No dinner, of course.

Signed,
Kid who still has no name

PS - it was raining.

(Yes, I do plan to return to normal blogging sometime soon but right now this is all I can manage.)

Dear Flyboy,
Okay, yes, I suppose I knew exactly what you were going to do when I gave you the chance and I can't blame you for that. I just know you'll pay for it later and I worry about you. You are much too serious for your own good. You're a kid, not an old man.

Tell me something new. Tell me about your first time - your very, very first time. And no, not THAT first time. Contrary to what you might think I'm really not that interested in your sex life or lack of one. (Personally I could write the entire book and never once think about your hormones and what they may or may not be doing but I don't think that would be realistic considering the fact that you're a teenage boy.) What I mean is, tell me about your first memory of flying and how it made you feel.

Signed,
Author trying to remember her first time




Dear Plant Kid,
Sorry about the sarcasm but really, I had no idea you were going to do that so I was surprised at the way everything unfolded. As the author though, I have to admit to being secretly delighted that there is already so much conflict going on. It bodes well for the future of the book.

There's going to be a HUGE fight over it, you know that, don't you? And I don't mean between you and MM. The town, especially that one neighbor, is going to fight it. You could make it an environmental issue but really, I think that's been done enough times already and never in a spectacular fashion so it would be hard for me to interest
an editor in it from that angle. You need to find your own way.

Fate versus dreamers, an interesting concept. I always thought you were on the side of fate, at least until the recent events. Interesting how quickly you've switched to the other side. Does he really have that much influence over you? Why is that? What do you get from him that you don't get from anywhere else?

You asked who you are living with and I have to tell you that right now, I'm not sure either. I think it may be your aunt. Maybe. I know you just moved there and the town is new to you.

What's it like for you at school? Do you have any friends? Are you a good student? Tell me something that will surprise me about you.

Signed,
Author who still doesn't know what you really want




Dear Friend of Max,
Attacking me is NOT going to get your story written. Do you think you are the only one in the world to go through hard times? If so, you are sadly mistaken. The world is not always a pretty place. Life is not easy and it is never, ever fair. Ever.

I'm sorry about the monster. We all have them in some degree or another. Some people have monsters they can see and other people have monsters who live inside them. Everyone gets broken. It's how you pick yourself up and put yourself back together again that decides how you will live your life.

You dad sounds like a great guy. I'm sorry he's not in the book but you can go visit him whenever you want.

You were afraid of Max? Really? That made me laugh too! I just remembered about Max and pickles. There's another story there, I'm sure. Can you tell more more about it?

Signed,
Author reading up on the legalities around your situation