One Writer's Process: Gloria Whelan

Gloria Whelan is the kind of writer who doesn't merely write stories, she inhabits them, creating imaginary worlds in places as far-away as Russia, China, India, Turkey, and Mali, as well as closer to her home in northern Michigan.

"When I find the world I want to ... live in," writes Whelan, "I have no trouble sitting down each day to the computer. My only worry is if I can communicate what I have learned and what I feel."

A gifted stylist whose observations about foreign landscapes and insights into her characters have earned her a myriad of awards for her work, Whelan says that as a child she "made up stories before she could write," and admits that writing is difficult work, especially those first tentative steps that a writer must make in order to find his or her story.

Yet over the years Whelan has persevered to create an impressive and critically acclaimed body of work that includes more than two dozen titles, such as Homeless Bird, a National Book Award winner, Listening for Lions (starred review in Booklist), and Summer of the War (starred review in Kirkus).

Whelan was kind enough to interrupt her work to share her thoughts on writing with Wordswimmer:

Susan Sontag in her novel, In America, wrote, "What is the point of telling stories if not to stir up the longing everyone harbors for an alternative life?" I have traveled far and experienced much in my novels. I have had so many alternative lives. That's the exciting thing about writing.

I've traveled through the West, to Africa, Russia, China, India. Some of these places I have actually visited. All of them I have researched. What draws me to these stories is not exotic differences but the amazing similarity I find to my own life.

I get cookbooks and bird books and travel books and history books, and all of that information is interesting. But once you get past the birds and the food and begin to experience what people experience, it is all the same: love, hunger, fear, hate, and friendship.

Though the politically correct would censor what authors can write about, I am convinced we can write about other cultures--not because of our differences, which are relatively small, but because of all we share.

It's the excitement of these alternatives that I try to pass on.

Susan Sontag takes us to the Poland and California of the 19th century. Isabel Colegate writes about England on the brink of World War I. Penelope Fitzgerald takes us to the Germany of Goethe. Such books succeed because their authors inhabit them so completely, and what fun they must have had doing it.

When I find the world I want to explore, want to live in, I have no trouble sitting down each day to the computer. My only worry is: can I communicate what I have learned and what I feel?

The most difficult part is beginning a story. You have an idea in your head and that idea is vivid and fascinating and will make the best novel in the world, and after you have written it down you are appalled. It's not at all like the idea in your head--in fact, it's boring.

The putting down of the first draft is the process I find most difficult. There is a bird who makes its nest by pulling the feathers from its own bloody breast. That is what a first draft is like. The rooms aren't furnished. The characters have no faces and no clothes. The countryside has no trees or flowers or weather. The characters themselves are cardboard with no likes or dislikes. You would not want to spend five minutes with them.

E. L. Doctorow says that writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird, my favorite book on writing, says you must develop a quiet doggedness. On the other hand, she says, perfectionism will only drive you mad.

It is only in the process of revision that we hopefully and gradually get our vision back, or at least approach it.

Tobias Wolff, in explaining why he never kept his first drafts, said, "They're not interesting to me but they might be interesting to somebody who wanted to see just how dramatic a difference revision can make to a hopeless writer, to give everyone else hope."

You have only to read the first drafts of novels like The Great Gatsby to learn how right Wolff is.

Though we may be writing about a place we have not been or people we have not known, here is the paradox: we do at last write what we know, for we can't write anything else.

Eudora Welty says, "any writer is in part all of his characters. How otherwise would they be known to him, occur to him, become what they are?"

That's what makes our writing so unique. If we write honestly, no one in the world can write the book that we write. That book will be unique.

Flannery O'Conner says that anyone who has survived childhood has enough to write about for the rest of their lives. Eudora Welty says, "I suspect it is when you can write most entirely out of yourself, inside the skin, heart, mind, and soul of a person who is not yourself, that a character becomes in his own right another human being on the page."

But she also says something else.

In discussing one of her characters, Miss Eckhart in "June Recital," she writes, "As I looked longer and longer for the origins of this passionate and strange character, at last I realized that Miss Eckhart came from me.... she derived from what I already knew for myself, even felt I had always known. What I have put into her is my passion for my work, my own art."

And maybe that is what writing must be: passion for living a story and then telling that story as well as you can tell it. So they are not alternative lives after all, just aspects of our own.

For more information about Gloria Whelan and her work, visit her website:
http://www.gloriawhelan.com/whatsnew.html

For additional interviews with Whelan, visit:
http://www.pbs.org/newshour/conversation/july-dec00/whelan_11-23.html
http://www.harpercollins.com/authors/12887/Gloria_Whelan/index.aspx

A Jewel in the Sand

Coming across a new book by Gloria Whelan is like uncovering a beautifully shaped jewel in the sand.

Whether she sets her stories in India, as she did in her National Book Award-winning novel, Homeless Bird, or in Russia, as she did with her remarkable trilogy beginning with Angel in the Square, Whelan is that rare storyteller who has the ability to invest the settings of her stories with the kind of emotional resonance usually found only in the most carefully drawn characters.

In her newest book, Summer of the War, Whelan returns to an island off the coast of her beloved Michigan’s upper peninsula, a setting which she explored in The Island Trilogy (Once on this Island, Farewell to the Island, and Return to the Island), during and after the events of the War of 1812, except that her new book is set during World War II.

When the story opens, the war feels very far away as fourteen year-old Mirabelle and her brother and sisters join their grandparents at the cottage on Turtle Island, just as they have for as long as Belle can remember.

In winter’s ice and snow we closed our eyes and saw the green island and the blue lake and were comforted. I dreamed about the big wooden cottage painted green so that it disappeared into the trees. I knew every tree and every inch of deserted beach. It made the world better just to think about the summer afternoons that never seemed to end and the long evenings when we sat on the porch watching the sun sink into the lake like a great orange balloon. The minute school was out, we began packing.

Belle’s love for the island shines through in this paragraph, and in time we feel the same depth of emotion that she has for the island, as well as for her gruff but lovable Grandpa, her generous and understanding Grandma, her brother, Tommy, 10, and sisters, Emily, 12, and Nancy, 8.

For Belle, it’s as if time stands still on the island and nothing changes. And, though this year her parents have decided to stay behind in Detroit to help with the war effort (her father, too old for service, volunteers to help build planes; her mother, a doctor, must practice medicine again), Belle hopes this summer on the island can still offer the same unchanging stretch of time as previous summers.

But war inevitably intrudes on her fantasy. It comes to Belle and her family despite the island’s remote location and its natural beauty, which serves as a strong emotional counterpoint throughout the story to the far-off rumblings of war.

At first, the war infiltrates the island’s peace in subtle ways. Not only does the family have to scrimp on gas because of rationing, but Belle’s friend, Ned, has dreams of joining the Navy next year. Then one day a letter arrives announcing the arrival of Belle’s older cousin, Caroline, who lived with her father in France after her mother (Belle's Aunt Julia) died and, once the war began, moved back to the states to live in Washington, DC. When the State Department assigns Carrie’s father to England, Carrie is sent to stay with her cousin, Belle, and the rest of her mother’s family in Michigan.

From the moment Carrie steps off the boat onto the island’s dock, it’s like a bomb exploding, shattering the island’s peace and sending sharp and painful reminders of war’s destructiveness into the hearts of Belle’s family and the islanders who are part of their life on the island. The fragments pierce Belle’s heart especially. She had initially looked forward to a summer with a cousin who speaks French and has seen the world. Only her anticipation turns to horror as Carrie shows her disdain for everything to do with her relatives and their provincial life on the island.

Belle tries hard to sympathize. But no matter how hard she tries to overlook the mess that Carrie makes in the room that they share, her cousin’s rudeness to her friends, and the way her cousin thinks nothing of stealing her best friend, Belle's life on the once-tranquil island only becomes more and more miserable. Belle had longed for a summer of sameness. Now she has to deal with a summer of endless changes, frustration, and disagreeable surprises.

Despite the unexpected disruption in their lives, Belle and her family try to observe the same rituals that they’ve observed every summer--repairing the stone cribs that support the dock, taking trips into town for groceries, watching the wild waves on the Lake Huron side of the island, planting a garden, bird-watching. But, nonetheless, Belle feels herself changing, and despises her cousin for bringing change into her life and to the island, which, until this year, had always been a sanctuary of peacefulness.

It isn’t until Carrie runs off during the night that Belle realizes just how much she is at war with Carrie, and how much Carrie is at war with the family. As much as Belle had hoped the island’s remote peacefulness might have protected her from the war, she finally realizes that war has come to the island and touched her, too.

But the "war" on the island ends when the mail brings tragic news of Carrie’s father in London. With this news, the entire family–including Carrie–understands that she is now a permanent member of the family in ways that both she and Belle must come to accept. In time, Belle does learn what Carrie wants most--the ability to be herself--and Carrie is able to accept the kindness offered by a family who she hadn’t known before, especially after she discovers in the attic clues to her mother’s past that help cement the fragile bond that she feels with Grandpa and Grandma, Belle, and the rest of her new family.

In this process of transfomation, Carrie shows her cousin something that Belle needed to learn about her family and herself:

...Carrie’s look said she would be one of the family but she would still be Carrie. Grandpa’s look said, “Yes, but it’s my decision to let you be Carrie.” I realized with a shock that Grandpa didn’t mind a little independence, that you could be independent and he’d still be there watching over you to see that you were safe. Carrie had opened a door for me. I saw that like the stone cribs, Grandpa and the rest of the family supported us, holding us together, but like the stones in the cribs, each one of us was different from the other and that was all right.

With a magical touch, Whelan spins a story of the war and its horrors on a remote island in Michigan’s north woods, and offers readers a remarkable portrait of two very different girls at a time when not only their lives but the entire world is changing

(Summer of the War by Gloria Whelan is scheduled for release from HarperCollins Publishers in August, 2006. For more information, check out harperteen.com or Gloria Whelan’s website at www.gloriawhelan.com.)

A Different Kind of Listening

Detecting the emotional content of a voice requires a different kind of listening.

No longer can we rely solely on our ears. We need to feel the emotion in a voice, and to do this means using our hearts as well as our ears.

Listening with our hearts lets us feel the underlying emotion--the fear or joy, sadness or hope--that flows through a character's veins.

But how are we to identify this emotional quality?

Where do we begin?

Although it may seem obvious, listen to the language of the story--the author's choice of words, the details the narrator has selected to share.

Listen for the rhythm of a pulse, and listen to the tone--whether it's formal or informal, stiff or loose, warm and inviting, cool and aloof.

Then, ask yourself how you feel about the language... and the main character.

What do your feelings reveal? Not just about the character, but about your response to the character?

Let's listen to a handful of voices and try to hear the emotional currents rippling through them:

Basketball is my thing. I can hoop. Case closed. I'm six four and I got the moves, the eye, and the heart. You can take my game to the bank and wait around for the interest. With me it's not like playing a game, it's like the only time I'm being for real. (from Slam! by Walter Dean Myers)

What do you hear in this passage?

Who is speaking?

What's the most important thing in the character's mind? Basketball? Playing the game? Proving himself on the court? Or feeling something different when he's playing than when he's not?

We know he's tall (six four), well-coordinated (he's got the moves), a player with drive and determination. We know, too, that he can play well (in his own mind, at least). And... what else?

How would you describe his emotional state? Secure? Fragile? Despite his prowess on the court, does he feel confident when he steps off the court?

What does Myers intend for us to feel as we read this passage? How does Myers succeed in linking us with this character? He merges our heart with this character's... so that we can feel it beating beside our own... but how does Myers do this?

Here's another voice:

"What if they find us? What's gonna happen?"
Harrison's eyes snapped open and he gave me his meanest stare. "Now, you be quiet, child, and git some rest 'cause we got another long run ahead of us. I don't want to hear no more of your talkin."
I kept quiet then, but the questions were still running back and forth in my head. What if I had left footprints in the field? What if Master hired dogs to track us down? What if it didn't rain? What if they found us sitting in the tree? What if they shot us down, as if we were nothing more than a pair of foolish wild birds?
(from Trouble Don't Last by Shelley Pearsall)

Listen closely... what do you hear in this passage?

Do you hear the fear in the character's voice? Can you feel his fear?

What do we learn from this passage about his life? He's a child ("Now, you be quiet, child...") and tired... and his journey is far from over... but what else?

The characters are running from someone or something... and the danger of being discovered is great... so great that the boy must remain silent.

But the silence only gives the boy's imagination freedom to design ways for their escape to fail--a series of what if's... his existence dependent not on his own actions but on random luck. If the master doesn't send out dogs. If it doesn't rain. If they're discovered in the tree.

Notice how the boy's consciousness reflects his way of looking at the world... his way of being... as an escaped slave. Having run away, he now can feel only the foolishness of his attempt to gain freedom, an attempt no different than a "pair of foolish birds."

How does the author bring you inside the story? What words does she use to let you feel the boy's fear, sense of isolation, and abandonment? The danger that the escaped slaves are in? The growing tension over the boy's future?

Now listen to this voice:

I spent the reception listening to comments about how tall I was, everyone trying to make it sound like it was a good thing to be a giant at fifteen. I towered over everyone, it seemed, and Ashley kept coming up behind me and poking me hard in the center of my back, which was my mother's subtle and constant signal that I was slouching. What I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball under the buffet table and hide from everyone. After four hours, several plates of food, and enough small talk to make me withdraw into myself permanently, we finally got to go home."
(from Sarah Dessen's That Summer)

What do you hear now? And, on a deeper level, what do you feel?

What details provide keys to the emotional state of this character? How do we know what we know about her? Which words, which actions, make us feel a certain way? Why?

Is she confident about herself? Happy with who she is? Pleased with her body? Does she like to spend time with people or does she prefer to spend time alone? What's her relationship with her mother? Her sister (who pokes her in the back)? How does she deal with things that she dislikes? Does she tell people what she's feeling? Does she have the courage to exit a situation that's making her feel uncomfortable?

How does this scene make you feel? And how does the author place you in the character's shoes?

One last voice:

I felt tears stinging my eyes as the bus pulled out of the station. It would take me to the Mehtas' village, but it would not bring me back. Maa must have had the same thought; she reached for my hand and held it tightly.
Mr. Mehta was there when the bus stopped. He was a short man with a small round face and a pair of large, dark-rimmed glasses. It was hard to see his face behind the glasses. I made my best ceremonial namaskar, saluting him and even touching his feet, but he gave me only a quick look. Instead he turned to Baap and, after a courteous but quick greeting, asked, "You have brought the dowry, sir?" Until that moment I had believed it was me the Mehta family wanted; now it seemed that what they cared for most was the dowry. Was my marriage to be like the buying of a sack of yams in the market-place?
(from Homeless Bird by Gloria Whelan)

What are the emotions that you feel when you listen to this voice? And why do you feel them?

We are present at a leave-taking and an arrival... events that will change the character's life. By sharing certain details with us, the author gives us a glimpse into the young girl's heart: how much she cares for her family, especially her Maa and Baap, and how much she will miss them.

Even though her parents accompany her on the journey, she's already imagining her life without them... as a married girl in the future. And we're given a glimpse into how she feels about herself and that future when she gets off the bus and meets her future father-in-law, who virtually ignores her respectful greeting and shows interest in only one thing: her dowry.

How does that rebuff make the character feel?

And how do you feel as you move deeply inside the narator's point of view?

What is it in the language that gives you this feeling? Is it the way the character finds herself ignored by Mr. Mehta? Or is it the way that she feels about being ignored... and the way that she expresses her emotional state in words ("Was my marriage to be like buying a sack of yams in the marketplace?")

Listen with your heart. Try to find the emotional thread running through these passages.

If you listen to a story with your heart, not just your ears, you should be able to slit open the story at any point... and not only hear the quality of emotion in a voice but feel the emotional pulse of the story, the character's heart beating steadily beside your own.

The examples that we looked at above were from YA novels, but you could perform the same exercise with picture books or middle grade readers.

Try it, see what happens... and let us know what you hear.

For further reference:

Walter Dean Myers: http://www.scils.rutgers.edu/~kvander/myers.html and an interview at http://www.teenreads.com/authors/au-myers-walterdean.asp

Shelley Pearsall: http://www.shelleypearsall.com/

Sarah Dessen: http://www.sarahdessen.com/

Gloria Whelan: http://www.gloriawhelan.com/

Also, Canadian illustrator Ian Wallace describes how he probes a text for an emotional link before he begins work at http://www.ian-wallace.com/speeches_1.html