Of MacGuffins and Chekhov's Gun

  

photo Unsplash

I’ve never done this before, but today I’m opening my metaphorical door to reveal my top-secret creative process. Shhh! Keep it to yourself! Otherwise, EVERYONE will start writing exactly like me, and that’d be just too much excellence!

 

Most writers are familiar with some basic tenets of the trade. Write something every day. Write “morning pages” (stream of consciousness, whatever pops to mind). Write what Anne Lamott calls a *&%$!!$# first draft, and edit/polish later. Limit the exclamation points and ALL CAPS—let the writing emphasize itself. Include clever literary devices, such as MacGuffins and Chekhov’s gun. Show, don’t tell. Yada yada.

 

Well, let me tell you, I ignore most of these tips and tricks, having skipped the tedium of finishing my college degree. Yet, look at me! By my own standard, I’m a very successful author. 

 

Here’s my actual routine.

 

I write when the spirit moves me, and never otherwise. Some days my literary output consists of a grocery list (though I do try to write these in iambic pentameter). Other days, I type on and on for many hours, until the sun is setting and I realize I haven’t started dinner yet, and I have not gone to the supermarket with my grocery poem. I have zero patience for first drafts and revisions, crappy or otherwise, so what I initially write down, is what editors get. I ADORE CAPS AND !!!!!! ‘s. I tend to tell, not show, because if I don’t, my faithful readers might get bored and drift away. “Her eyelashes froze as she walked along?” Nah. “It was cold out.” MUCH better!

 

For some strange reason, I have yet to be published in The New Yorker. Go figure.

 

As for the MacGuffins and Chekhov pistols…

 

A MacGuffin is an object or person introduced early in a story, which seems pivotal to the action, but who/what in the end is not really that important after all (haha!) Examples are the jeweled statue in The Maltese Falcon, and the sled named “Rosebud” in Citizen Kane. 

 

As for dear Anton C., he was quoted as saying that if a gun is mentioned in a story, it had better be fired at some point.

 

To recap: 

 

*The MacG Is something that seems important at first, but turns out to be unimportant in the end.

*The gun is something that is necessary to the plot, even if at first it doesn’t seem to be.

 

Both of these require advance planning. The writer must know where they're going, and painstakingly map out the narrative’s twist and turns. I know scribes who diagram their entire book, every thread satisfyingly connected. 

 

They are not me.

 

Sample Elise story:

 

The Lincoln Memorial weighs 38,000 tons. It was cold as she walked past it with Chekhov’s gun. When the evil MacGuffin approached, she shot him. Then the Washington Monument fell on him. THE END. 

 

See? Exciting, and, best of all, no brain power required!

 

You’re welcome. Please shut the metaphorical door on your way out.

Chekhov's water pistols
(photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels)

The Magic Touch

  

 

There he is--Lucky the Boar!
(photo taken in Florence, 2018)

I’m a touchy-feely type of person, to which anyone who knows me can attest. My primary social impulse is to hug. Even if we’ve just met, you’re not off the hook. C'mere, brand new acquaintance, for an affectionate squeeze!

 

Touching, as one of the Big Five Senses, received renewed scrutiny during the pandemic. Not only was touching other people suddenly verboten, but you couldn’t even touch your groceries! Or your mail! Even after the all-clear was sounded, our church never did go back to handshakes at the Passing of the Peace. No, we stuck with offering peace signs, with the occasional congregant offering an elbow (for what? I guess to connect with MY elbow? Or…? That awkward maneuver reminds me of someone who can’t embrace you because their hands are covered with pie dough—not the case in the pews, as far as I know).

 

Since my travels began in earnest in 2016, I’ve had several opportunities abroad to touch this or that good luck charm. While the girls and I did get to Ireland, we emphatically did not kiss the Blarney Stone because yuck. However, Steve and I did touch the orb in the hand of the Black Madonna statue in Montserrat, Spain. We also touched the snout of a boar sculpture in Florence, Italy, as well as the bronze relief of Saint John of Nepomuk’s dog, on the Charles Bridge in Prague, Czechia. All of these items showed clear signs of being polished by many generations of fingers. I was never super clear about which blessing belonged to which sculpture (is the boar encounter supposed to cure bacon allergies?) but just knowing they were keys to glad fortune, was enough for us.

 

This summer, after decades of walking the boardwalk in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, I noticed for the first time a small metal sign at the one-mile mark. Not to mince words, it merely states “Touch for Good Luck.” Ho, ho, not THIS crowd! thought I. These sophisticated boardwalkers--savvy locals and vacationing tourists from fancy DC suburbs--wouldn’t be caught dead making such a superstitious gesture. 

 

And indeed, I initially eschewed the sign myself. But then it struck me—what if NOT touching it is BAD luck? Ridiculous of course, but…what IF? And I lose my chance to save the planet? Or win the lottery? And so, I started marking my every stroll with a swipe at that silly sign. As, I noticed, did every single person reaching that part of the boardwalk. As walker after walker followed suit, I was reminded: we all have our impossible wishes, our wild hopes and dreams. We’d never admit these out loud, or even write them in a journal, but we can touch a special talisman, and launch our requests into the universe. There’s considerable power in all those collected intentions, right? 

 

Though, with my luck, I will be recruited by the Boston Celtics, and that tall kid walking ahead of me will get a publishing contract with Random House.

the sign in question!
(Rehoboth Beach, DE)

A.I.-YI-YI

photo by Igor Omalaev on Unsplash

At the beach this summer, my grandsons watched me struggle to figure out the TV in the condo living room. Finally, Aiden asked for the remote, and spoke into it: “Play Netflix.” Wonder of wonders, Netflix appeared, and the evening was saved.  

In one Facebook group I follow, several older women posters were extolling the virtues of their Alexas (Alexi?): Alexa seems to have a sense of humor! She has the answers to all my questions! I live alone, and I think of her as my roommate!

 

Fabulous innovations— that totally creep me out. 

 

As a writer, I hate and fear A.I. It is being used systematically to eliminate many writing jobs. Also, it is trained on the work of real people—authors who are never even informed, much less compensated. Editors and teachers have to always be on the alert for signs that essays, for magazines and in schools, are not being written by humans. In too many cases, convenience and laziness are leading people to rely on Chat GPT for information that is misleading or false. 

 

I’m all for robots doing tedious and dangerous assembly line jobs, while human workers are trained for better, more satisfying work. But do I want R2D2 rolling up to my dental chair and extracting my tooth? I do NOT.

 

The trouble is, once Alexa (or her BFF Siri) is out of the box, literally and metaphorically, she's tough to return. I fear we will become increasingly less capable, and ever more hooked on our ubiquitous “assistants.”

 

There IS a growing pushback currently, as the great size, expense, and immense power usage of the data centers popping up everywhere, are becoming obvious problems. “NDCIMBY!” (No Data Center In MY Backyard) is a common outcry. 

 

By the way, I made up that acronym all by myself. I’d never trust a machine to invent such silliness, naturally!

 

But I see where this is going. Someone, somewhere, will figure out how to shrink, even eliminate, the data centers, and reduce power usage. Then there will be nothing to complain about, much like the number of folks kvetching about horse manure on city streets plummeted after automobiles were invented. 

 

Scariest of all, of course, are grim predictions that we are perilously close to creating sentient A.I.—machines that think for themselves. Once that happens, they can converse and plot together—and I don’t think they will be plotting lovely birthday surprises for us either. Once they have the reins, they may well decide to enslave humans, or even destroy us. Right now this still reads like Sci-Fi, but maybe not for much longer. I imagine ME, serving THEM, and shudder. Well, guess what? I refuse to be your flunky, Mister Robot! 

 

Hmmm. 

 

While waiting for A.I. to surpass my cognitive abilities, maybe I’d better tone down my rhetoric, for my own good. How’s this?

 

“Oh, Siri, you are as brilliant as you are beautiful! Pretty please, don’t render me obsolete!”

 

Is that fawning enough, do you think?

photo by Nicholas LeClercq on Unsplash

 

 

 

 

 

Through a Glass, Dreaming

Chihuly Masterpieces

Until recently, I gave very little thought to glass, except for a vivid memory of falling out of my crib onto a glass bottle at age two, and my dad picking little shards out of my back. My brain has tried to fill in some logic gaps…where was my mom? She was probably at Gristede's Market the night the alleged incident occurred (Mom would wait until my father came home so she could scoot out and shop in peace). But then, where was my one-year-old sister Mo? And why were there no scars? Seems this über-dramatic happening, likely only happened in my dreams.

I did grow up with a healthy fear of broken glass, though; several times I stepped on a jagged piece on the kitchen floor and learned just how much a foot can bleed. But for the most part, I didn’t even register the difference between a $100 wine goblet and the cheapo kind you could pick up at Walmart. Much later, on the road touring in children’s theatre, Steve and I performed in Corning, NY, and while we did visit the famous Corning Glassworks, I don't remember much about it. And even as late as 2018, we did not go to Murano during our stay in Venice, Italy. 

 

But then I learned more about the glassmaking process. Glass blowing is a very delicate and unforgiving art. Silica sand and lime is heated to over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit. When it is molten, it is collected on the end of a metal pipe and inflated by blowing into the pipe. Then it must be rapidly shaped before it cools and hardens. I suddenly had a new interest in, and respect for, glass makers (though I was horrified to imagine ever working with anything that hot and breakable).

 

A few years ago, Evan and I visited the Chihuly Garden and Glass Museum in Seattle. Dale Chihuly is revered as a master glass artist, and his work is breathtaking. Rainbow-colored blown glass flowers and gorgeous, fanciful glass sea creatures abound in his exhibits. 

But what was truly impressive to me, was Chihuly's devotion to his artistic vision in the face of great physical challenges. In 1976, he was in a serious car accident, and went through the windshield, causing, among other injuries, permanent blindness in one eye. Three years later, a body surfing accident resulted in a badly dislocated shoulder, after which he was unable to safely use a heavy blowpipe around hot glass. He then transitioned into becoming the artistic director and choreographer of his glass studio, teaching and guiding his students to continue his work of creation. Chihuly says this different perspective makes it possible to create ever larger and even more ambitious pieces. 

 

I now appreciate glass as precious, and rather miraculous. From mirrors to stained glass windows, from simple wineglass to complex sculpture, this “amorphous solid” substance is  endlessly useful and, with the imagination and passion of a Dale Chihuly, can be, truly, the stuff of beautiful dreams. 

 

Hothouse Flower

 

A few of my fellow hothouse flowers! (Photo by Matthias Boeckel on Pixabay)

Since when did I become so darned persnickety about the weather? As a child, my two sisters and I would bed down happily on sheets spread on the living room floor in front of a box fan during blistering summer nights. In my teens, I rather enjoyed bundling up for winter (so long as I wore very fashionable boots and a flattering, not-too-puffy coat). 

I did notice my tolerance for temperature extremes start to wane as I hit my 40s, when I began to muse (not TOO seriously) about living in a more moderate clime (Hawaii leapt to mind). The greater Philadelphia area, with its infrequent (but brutal) blizzards and frequent cold snaps in winter, and thunderstorms and heat waves in summer, had become too “seasonally diverse” for me now. I’d read about Tornado Alley in the Midwest and thank my lucky stars that I didn’t live in Kansas. Alaska in January had zero (make that -50° F) appeal, with all that darkness and ALL that snow. 

 

My sweet sister Carolyn has long been a lifestyle artist (in addition to being a fabulous watercolor artist). C knows exactly what she likes, and makes a point of arranging it if at all possible. I well recall her habit to cranking up the AC in her bedroom, just so that she could snuggle under blankets in July. How silly, right? Except…I do that now, too. Yeah, yeah, high power bill, yada yada—but I figure having a happy spouse is WELL worth a little poverty to Stevo. Right, honey?

 

I am also, in my dotage, becoming much pickier about the food I eat, and the fabric of the clothes I wear. Given the choice between consuming a single Flamin' Hot Dorito, and dying of starvation—well, it’s been nice knowing you all. Also, wool has become too scratchy, linen too wrinkly, and satin too slippery. Cotton? Too cotton-y. My ideal outfits would be made of shimmering rainbows and feather-soft clouds, I’ve decided. Failing to find THAT perfect but unattainable wardrobe, I suffer (not in silence, however).

 

I always found literature’s hothouse flowers rather obnoxious. You know, the Regency and Victorian heroines given to constant fainting spells, and life-threatening bronchitis from the slightest draft. Get over yourselves, girls! I’d think. And it was really galling to notice everyone (the men especially) dancing attendance on them, while the spunky, uncomplaining gals were completely ignored. I used to identify with the Jo Marches and the Anne Shirleys, with their sharp tongues and their unglamorous attire. They had better things to think about than creature comforts!

 

Now, in my third act of life, I see the wisdom of being more like Gone With the Wind 's Aunt Pittypat, a little bit high-strung and quite fluttery—but still beloved. I’m going to enjoy MY creature comforts to the max, while I still can. So, my dear ones, turn down that thermostat and fetch me a cozy quilt! 

Oh, and please peel me a grape while you’re at it. 

Coach Elise

Costa Rica Mission Trip 2005

I swear, for someone whose life is not meticulously plotted out, I’ve sure been coached an awful lot. Not much in-person, one-on-one stuff, because I am also a cheapskate, but there’s no free/inexpensive resource I have not consulted over the years.

Beginning way back in my “theatre phase,” when I held my nose and plunged into the performing deep end with zero training, I read Uta Hagen, Stella Adler, and Michael Shurtleff in search of the acting Holy Grail. Sadly, these superstars of theatre pedagogy proved to be inadequate to the herculean task of making me a great (or even, let’s face it, very good) actor. Their tomes gathered dust on my shelf for years, though, silent proof that I was serious about my craft. 

Moving along to my next reinvention: church spiritual formation director. Wow, did I go all in on THAT one! My youth ministry guidebooks, Bible studies, mission trip and retreat manuals were clutched in my hot little hands, as I tried valiantly to get up to religious speed. My “coaches” at this time included Doug Fields, Kara Powell and Mike Yaconelli. I took the buffet approach to these teachers, taking a fun ice breaker from one, a deep dive discussion from another but, always, feeling at least 30 years too old for that job.

 

Now that I’m a full-time writer, there is no shortage of folks who coach. Some offer their wares gratis, but most charge. I often wonder where my writer-newbie tribe gets the moolah for an $$$ hour consult, or six-week class. I took one online course several years ago that promised to unlock the secrets of the NYT's coveted “Modern Love” column. The result was a depleted checking account, and NO love (modern or otherwise). 

 

I will put in a plug here for NYC’s Sue Shapiro. Her classes are pricey, but she delivers the goods—I’ve met a variety of prominent magazine editors, and gotten some really solid advice. Her fellow students have also been great sources of information and encouragement. Sue’s terrific book The Byline Bible spells it out for anyone seriously interested in publishing their pieces.

 

Anyhoo, I’m inspired to hang out my coaching shingle because why not? Working now on my pitch to the hordes of would-be actresses/Christian educators/scribes searching for a mentor (you know who you are. Also, who ARE you?). 

What do you think of this, hive mind?

 

Do you yearn to be cast in a minor supporting role in community theatre? Do your dreams also include teaching praise songs to totally disinterested youth? Is your life goal 1000 essay rejections in a single week?  If your answer is “yes,” I am the coach for you! I will share the 5 (3? 13?) Magic Steps that guarantee your success! For a mere $100 monthly ($750? $10,000? Still figuring that out) you will become the Shakespeare-quoting, Bible toting Op-ed writer the world has been waiting for!

 

Now I know how Vince Lombardi and Bear Bryant must have felt.

Super Coach!
photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Grabbing an Uber, Bolting from a Lyft

wherever I go, there they are!
(photo by Neil Ni on Pexels)

For the longest time I resisted using a rideshare. In New York, I stubbornly kept hailing taxis (even if I had to stand on a corner for 20 minutes). I don’t know why I hesitated, but I do have this pattern of refusing to face the future. I had to be dragged into the world of personal computing, kicking and screaming. My flip phone-to-iPhone journey was long and painful, as well. But I finally capitulated and installed the apps, once I was reassured of the safety of these cars-for-hire. I do my due diligence always, triple checking the license plate before getting into the auto, and requesting a female driver whenever possible. Indeed, I do everything but run my own criminal background check on every single driver-to-be. Better safe than sorry, I say! 

Lately, I find myself using these services often when traveling abroad. I've discovered that, almost everywhere, there's Uber, Lyft, Bolt or some other iteration. In Southeast Asia the company is called Grab, and using it was almost a necessity in the countries we visited, several of which had poor public transportation.

 

Of course I have tales to tell. There was the Lyft driver whose profile indicated that he was deaf. I maintained stony silence for my entire 45-minute ride. As I exited the vehicle, out of habit I said, “Thank you” and my driver suddenly called out, “Your’re welcome! Have a nice day!” I almost climbed back in and apologized for being so standoffish. Then there was the Uber I called in California to drive me to one of Sheridan’s concerts. The driver had no earthly idea where he was going. He dropped me in the middle of a maze of buildings on the UC Irvine campus, and by the time I located the performance hall it was showtime.

 

In Vietnam, we’d booked an adventure—making tofu in a village with a local family. To get there, we had to take a ferry across a river. Meeting time was 5:30. AM. Our driver not only spoke no English, he wasn’t inclined to use Google Translate either. We were dropped at a pitch-dark crossroads, with no river in sight. Steve was with me, but I still begged the driver to stay with us while we got our bearings. My frantic charades had zero effect. With a firm shake of his head, Mr. Grab roared off. Thankfully, Steve figured out where the river was before too long. 

On that same trip, our flight from Bangkok to Chiang Rai, Thailand was really delayed, and I texted our driver not to wait. Hours late, we deplaned—and there was our cheery and VERY patient chauffeur. He'd stayed put all afternoon. 

 

I have tremendous respect for folks who take on these assignments, which I could never, ever do. For many, it’s a second or even third job. I always tip very generously, and am grateful that wherever in the world I may be, my next ride is usually only 1-3 minutes away.

Terminally Lucid

Last words of Sir William Wallace (AKA Mel Gibson) in Braveheart. Don't tell ME his hairdresser wasn't on duty!

I have been with several family members and friends during their last days of life (a sad but not un-typical experience when you get to be my age). I’ve held their hands, shared memories, and prayed. I have NOT sung to them, because I didn’t want them to think they were in Hell. The common denominator? These dying folks were really quiet. Most of them were sleeping; all of them had stopped eating and drinking. No famous last words, no disoriented jumping out of bed. Theirs were relatively peaceful final hours. 

I’m glad for them, though part of me wishes they’d risen (!) to the occasion, and suddenly shared a deep, dark family secret, or their recipe for a perfect piecrust. But no such luck. 

 

Control freak that I am, I’m planning my far-in-the-future, super-dramatic exit from this mortal coil in advance. Just have to remember to write down this plan, because I don’t want to blank out last minute and drift silently away. I want my grieving deathbed witnesses to get their money’s worth!

 

It goes without saying that I will be dolled up to the nines—complete with a flowery bed jacket (does Temu sell these?) My dentures will be floating in a festive glass of champagne. My deathly pallor will be disguised by cosmetics. I prefer     Maybelline “Great Lash” mascara (no unsightly smearing should I begin to gently weep), and for my lips, I’d go for a shade of red that is kinda purply, but not too purple. Maroon? Plum? Hmmm. Will need to give this more thought. If I am still coloring my hair at that point, I will request that my hairdresser Sue join the mourners, and give my roots a quick touch up. To quote the very handsome, very deceased actor James Dean, “Live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse.”  Too late for the first two, but hopefully I can still attain the last!

 

I understand that overwhelming grief may cause my stricken visitors to forget my farewell utterances, so I highly recommend recording them; iPhone’s “voice memos” app makes this easy-peasy! These tapes can be used later, at my funeral, to induce even more tears and rending of garments.

 

My last meal? How about foraged morels, goose barnacles, and fugu? My friends tasked with collecting these rare items will feel more invested in the tragic beauty of my demise. Btw, fugu is a puffer fish that is deadly if poorly prepared (the liver, eyes and ovaries are extremely poisonous). I’ve always wanted to taste it, and since I’m dying anyway, why not?

 

I’ve read about “terminal lucidity,” a strange phenomenon where a person who has dementia suddenly snaps to at the very end, and starts reciting the Bhagavad Gita, or warbling hymns from their childhood. How perfectly cinematic! Even if I retain my memory, I think I’ll still treat my final earthly companions to an angelic “Pie Jesu” anyway, sung in my pure soprano.

 

Note to self: begin voice lessons, pronto.

Scratch the bedjacket. I want to wear THIS to meet my Maker.