PAULA WHYMAN

This is a little true-to-life anecdote I wrote up last year for another writer's blog. Since that site has gone off-line, I'm re-posting it here, where it can live forever in infamy. Or something.

Ode to the Hand Dryers of LaGuardia

I was on the shuttle to New York to meet my spouse for an Important Work Event (IWE). Most IWE’s involve dressing up. This one did not. At least for dressy events it was easy to figure out what to wear. Something dressy, which I had maybe two of, since most IWE’s in my own job are BYOC (bring your own coffee) and require a special dress code of sweatpants. My spouse, however, lives in the Real World of Real Work where appropriate dress means dressing to appear in public places and not looking like a mug shot. This is, I’ve decided, also the secret to Real Pay. So I’ve begun to dress up for work in the hopes that the mailman will notice and bring me a paycheck.

But this event was a cookout, and as such, the dress code was disconcertingly open to interpretation, with options ranging from frilly sundresses to madras shorts. And, it would take place at the boss’s house, which really changed the equation to, which outfit is least likely to show perspiration? I finally settled on off-white cropped pants and a cute blouse. I’m telling you this because it will be important later. I don’t remember if I had a sweater, but I should have, and if I didn’t it’s because I was too busy making sure I had all 48 pieces of reading material stuffed in my carry-on, just in case we were stuck on the runway for 2 hours on a brilliant sunny day, which was what had happened the last time I boarded the shuttle for an IWE.

I was of course the only person on the shuttle wearing cropped pants, because everyone else, men and women alike, had dressed to look important, in tailored suits. And they probably were important. I, on the other hand, was a spouse.

I sat next to a man who, until the flight took off, talked on his cell phone (“Tell him we’re there. At least we can get dinner out of this fiasco”), and in front of a woman who talked on her cell phone (“The cat? But how much blood??”). I tried not to listen, really… I stared at one of my five issues of the NYT Book Review, which I save because I’m sure I’ll get to them someday, certainly by the time the books are out in paperback. And then, an event that now seems mythical, old fashioned, and quaint: A flight attendant gave me a package of shortbread cookies and asked me what I wanted to drink. When I think of it now, my vision gets a little blurred with tears of nostalgia for the travel customs of yesteryear. Or at least, last year.

I asked for apple juice, with no ice, to ensure the greatest quantity of actual beverage in the cup. Why I did not just ask for water, I will never know. But then I would not have this story to tell. Wherein there was turbulence uncharacteristic for a shuttle flight on a brilliant sunny day. Wherein there was no little cup-size indentation on my pull-down tray to safely hold my apple juice cup. Wherein the turbulence came on so suddenly and was so concentrated and jolting that I had no opportunity to grab the cup of apple juice before it slid forward and spilled directly in my lap. And when I say “lap” I mean “crotch.” Just so there’s no misunderstanding.

And now is the time to remember that I’m wearing off-white pants; pants of a thin, summer-weight fabric which, according to REI, is “wicking.” And so it did.
The liquid, which expanded in quantity as only spilled liquids can, soaked through my (light-colored! wicking fabric!) pants so that I was effectively sitting in apple juice, marinating like a really great recipe I have for Belgian chicken. Except I think that uses cider. So I should be grateful for small things. Cider would’ve been worse. I will spare you some of the rest---the biodegradable napkins I was offered that left little napkin spitballs on my pants, the sopping blanket I put between myself and the seat to raise myself out of the puddle that my pants (wicking!) had not yet absorbed, the flight attendant’s helpful reminder to buckle up and remain seated during turbulence.

I had no change of clothing with me. This was a day trip. I seriously considered wrapping myself in back-issues of the book review. I thought, well, they’re finance people, they’ll just think I’m one of those eccentric artist types making a statement. A saturated statement that smells suspiciously like my son’s lunchbox.

When we landed at LaGuardia, I tried not to panic. I went to the public restroom. I don’t know if it has ever been said before or will ever be said again, but that morning, there was nothing I wanted to see more than the public restroom at LaGuardia Airport. And there I found the thing that saved me. Someday there will be a poetic tribute to the Hand Dryers of LaGuardia. The hard part was how to position myself in order for the airflow to reach the key saturated areas. I had two options: I could disrobe in LaGuardia’s restroom and climb onto the counter by the sink with no pants on. That seemed unwise for reasons I don’t think I need to list. Or, what I chose to do, which was to practice for my next career as circus contortionist and simply adjust my still-clothed body to the proper angle. And the less said of that, the better. Except I will tell you that it worked. Within a few minutes, I was dry. And the pants were close enough in color to the apple juice (off white! And did I mention wicking…?), that the mishap left no stains discernible by anyone who wasn’t looking more closely than would be polite.

In case there’s any doubt, I’m looking forward to my next shuttle flight. In fact, I’ve already picked out my clothes.

A colleague sent me this clever column, which lists Elmore Leonard's ten "rules" for writers. The article dates back to 2001, but it's as relevant as ever. Leonard offers these guidelines for writers who want to "remain invisible," unless, he says, "the sound of your voice pleases you."

You don't want the reader to be conscious of your presence, or let's say, to feel the hand of the godlike genius manipulating your characters. For instance, the godlike genius might say to itself, 'gee, wouldn't it be cool if this hockey player started quoting Swedenborg? Because like, Swedenborg is his secret passion?' Um, yeah. That's fine if it's true of this particular hockey player, but if it's true only because you just read this fascinating thing about Swedenborg and can't wait to use it so everyone can see how smart you are...not so okay.

One of my favorite pairs of rules here is "never use a verb other than 'said' to carry dialogue," and "never use an adverb to modify" it. I have to fight the urge myself at times, but to me to do otherwise too often sounds self-conscious and feels like a substitute for effective dialogue and gesture.

Some people might disagree with Leonard on points like "hooptedoodle"--That's the technical term he discovered in Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday, for when, as a Steinbeck character explains, writers "spin up some pretty words...or sing a little song with language...[But] I don't want hooptedoodle to get mixed up with the story." In fact, Steinbeck conveniently placed his own "flights of fancy" in separate designated chapters, so readers can skip them if they want.

I realize it's hard not to be attached to one's hooptedoodle. I think the point is to use it sparingly.

Leonard also advises that writers "leave out the part that readers tend to skip." Which part is that? Probably the part we are most proud of: "...thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them."

Are you laughing?

When readers are involved in the story, they want to know what's going to happen, they read faster and faster the more suspense you've generated. If the reader is suddenly stopped by a paragraph of description, it deflates the tension. So really, this is about pacing. It's not that you can't have those long paragraphs--IMO--if they add to the story, but you have to know where to put them.

And, if you're using your characters effectively to tell the story, this eliminates a lot of excess.

His most important rule, which sums up the others:

"If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it."

Good advice, and so often hard to do when it comes to your own work.

On Facebook the other day, I announced that I was working on a new novel. I was about 10,000 words into it, which made it seem to me likely to work out. When I passed the 10k mark, I labeled an actual folder with the working title of the book. I know, we're talking a strong commitment there. But that made it seem real-ish to me, since I often keep new drafts in a folder on my laptop called "short stories" until they get to be oh, about 150 pages long.

I announced this project on Facebook intentionally, because I figured once people knew about it, some of them would bug me about it on a regular basis. It will be pretty embarrassing if, three months from now, I haven't made any progress. Nothing like a little friendly peer pressure to keep you going when you have no actual deadline other than a self-imposed daily word-count minimum.

One of my colleagues noted that her litmus test for project viability is getting through the first fifty pages. I remember another writer telling me that she would know after five pages whether it was a go. FIVE.

You can have a story that really interests you and a character you're excited about and still, when you sit down to write it, it doesn't go anywhere. It seemed so perfect when it was in your head, too... So, how do you know? What are the signs? For me, with this particular project, I'm certain that it's not a short story, because the plot has a much longer arc, and there are threads that are just starting to opening up, secondary characters that are just being developed. The story still seems wide open. It could go in a number of directions, there seems to be tension, and the pace doesn't feel too slow. But, I'll let my fabulous writing group weigh in on that...

There may be particular ways you know a project is working, but when do you tell people about it, and how much do you say? Sometimes it helps to talk out particular problems, but in general, I don't like to say much about a novel in the early stages, because I risk imagining too much of it in advance. Once I've done that, I don't need to write it: The discovery process is complete, it's just been completed in a way that doesn't result in a book. The same thing happened to me when I tried to write using an outline. That was a long time ago, and I never did it again.

The way I know for sure that this project is a novel is that my son told his teacher about it. The first week of school, my 13-year-old was told to write an essay about his family. In it, he says his mother is working on a novel. So I guess I better keep him honest. Of course, he also wrote that his father likes to go camping, and his mother likes to be in air conditioning. Did he have to say that? But I'll be the last person to tell him what to write. Besides, it's true...