A Cool Breeze From Afar

My brother lives in Denmark and my sister in Illinois, so whenever either of them comes to California, it's a reason for a reunion. Last week, they both landed in southern California where they picked up my mom and then drove up to see us.
It was a long, hot car ride as my mom's air conditioning didn't work. In fact, before braving the desert-like heat on the drive up, my brother had stopped in at a mechanic for an estimate. After hearing the mechanic's busy schedule and outrageous prices, they decided they could live with a little sweat rolling down the back of their necks.
Having family come in is always an expansion of the heart and mind. When we get a heat wave, my sister says, 'Well, at least it's not humid like Chicago."
When my kids complain about our old van, Mother pipes up about how her car has aging difficulties as well. The windows don't work. Dashboard lights flash on randomly. And then there is that air con thing.
And when I tell my younger son who has just done a cool experiment in science class with dry ice that no, I don't want to drive 45 minutes to find more dry ice, my brother and sister both chime in, "Why not? That's not far."
"But the gas prices are terrible," I counter.
"Life is good, " my brother reminds me. He says in Denmark, a gallon of gas is close to $8, there is a 25% tax on things, and an inexpensive restaurant meal is $25/person.
That is how we found ourselves circling around an industrial area in my mom's hot car, looking for this place that sold dry ice. No, my dear son--a chip off this block-- didn't know the name. No, he hadn't written down the phone number. We just had this address which turned out to be a darkened building. We decided to try the Great Mall which was down the block.
Oh, my gosh. What a huge place. One square mile of shop after shop after shop. (none of which sold dry ice.)
Overwhelmed (how many shoe shops does one need in one square mile?) we gave up and decided to come home. The traffic was bad. The heat was unbearable. My brother was driving, and he reached over and fiddled with the heating/air con dials. Suddenly a blast of cool air filled the car.
Cool air. Wow. Where did that come from?
"I thought the thing was broken," I said.
"Well, she said it was broken," my brother pointed at my sister. "Next time I'll know better than to believe--"
"Well, mom said it was broken," my sister said.
"How did you get it to work?" I asked
"I just pushed the air con button on," he said. "She hadn't had it on."
So the air con button hadn't been pushed on. And Mother assumed when no cool air came out that the whole air con was broken (after all, it is an old car.) And the story was spread to the point that everyone believed it--even the mechanic. Until one person came along and tested the whole "it's broken" theory.
We all got a nice laugh out of that....
And I've been fiddling with the air con dials in my car ever since, hoping the same theory will work for me.
But perhaps I better just go see that mechanic.

Wikipedia Set Me Straight

In 1992, I was invited to present a paper at Vietnam's 1st Women's Conference in Hanoi. ( My topic--no surprise--was how culture and the stories each culture tells shape attitudes towards women. ) It was an interesting weekend, not so much for what we accomplished as for the friendships we made with women from all over the world.

One particular woman I met was an energetic and kind young Vietnamese named Miss Ha. We had such fun talking with one another and trading stories, that when she offered to guide me to a beautiful part of the country--Halong Bay--I wrapped the rest of my time in the country around this plan. She said she would have to take a day off work, but not to worry. Just to go ahead by myself. She and her husband would meet me in a certain hotel lobby at 2pm.

So off I went in a battered old taxi. All I had was the name of the hotel and her name: Miss Ha. I reasoned that there couldn't be too many hotels by the same name in a small village and certainly nobody else by the strange name of Miss Ha.

After riding on a dusty road for several hours, I arrived in this amazing place where black rocks jutted out of the emerald green Halong Bay. There were different names for the rocks and stories behind each of those. I was mesmerized. I needed to find Miss Ha and her husband so we could go out in a small wooden boat and explore.

I went to the designated location, an old colonial style hotel with a wide open-air lobby and a lazy ceiling fan stirring up a breeze. A man and two women were chatting behind the counter, laughing. Miss Ha wasn't there. I walked out to the back where there was a garden. But Miss Ha wasn't there either. I checked my watch. It was 2pm.

"Can I help you?" the man behind the counter asked.

"Yes, " I said. "I'm looking for Miss Ha."

"Which Miss Ha?"

"I don't know," I said. "She's with a man, her husband."

They exchanged looks.

"Miss Ha is a very common name in our country," the man explained.

Despite my predicament, I had to laugh. Just because I'd never heard the name, I'd assumed it was rare. Here it turned out that it was the equivalent of Smith or Jones. (Or so I thought)

As luck was on my side, Miss "Jones" came running up the path with her husband just as I was leaving. They'd been caught in traffic. "What is your full name?" I asked before we went further. "Nguyen Thanh Ha," she said. Great. Now I knew (or thought I did.) We had a wonderful time together wandering around the Bay, and have been corresponding ever since.

Last week, though, I was working on a Vietnamese fairytale that she told me, and I needed some common Vietnamese names to work with. I went to Wikipedia. Turns out --as I had learned so many years ago--that Ha is a very common name. But it's not a common last name. It's a given name. So when I went walking into the lobby, I'd been asking for Jane.

All these years, my friend probably assumed I knew I was addressing her letters as Miss Jane. I always assumed that she had taught me her name from given name to surname as we do. It took Wikipedia to set me straight.

Lost At Orientation

I've been told that this is the toughest thing I'll ever do....that it's like mourning a death. But actually I was unconcerned, feeling fine until about a month ago when my youngest woke up crying .

"What's the matter?" I asked her.

"I don't want jiejie to go away," she said.

"Go away?" It was a Sunday. My eldest daughter hadn't mentioned she was going anywhere that day. "Where's she going?"

"To college," she said.

Oh. Yeah. That thing.

Recently, I took my daughter to That Thing. It wasn't the pull-up-to-the-curb-and-drop-off- type of trip I remember from "my day." I--along with a multitude of other parents--was asked to stay at the college for two days and undergo orientation along with our children. I stayed in the dorm and ate at the commons and got lost looking for the right buildings. Just like in the old days.

The first day the Administration told us how wonderful our students were, what a fine school it was, how grand the experience would be. I was feeling great, patting myself on the back at our good fortune.

The next day, however, the Administration took us down reality lane--about DRINKING (49% of students binge drink, but that's not too bad compared with Harvard which has 44%) , DRUGS (a "small percentage" of students do hard drugs: 10%), RAPE (1 in 4 women in universities should expect to be assaulted in some fashion). And by the way, if you're feeling sad, apprehensive, having trouble letting go, that's normal.

I felt miserable. What was I doing thrusting my dear little one out into this crazy world?

Fortunately, my husband showed up. The voice of reason. He said not to worry. Everything would be alright. He had brought our daughter's belongings--two suitcases full of clothes, bedding, hangers, etc.

We thought we'd perform a last parenting-type duty and set up her room while she went off to register for classes. He made the bed. I unpacked her suitcases --the whole time thinking why does she need two full suitcases worth of clothes for six weeks of summer school? I ended up only unpacking one suitcase and just sliding the other under the bed...in case. I noticed she'd left her cell phone on her desk where I put photos of her friends and family. The room looked cozy and fun. She'd be thrilled....

If we could find her.

She wasn't at the class registration area. She wasn't at the dining hall. She wasn't soaking up sunshine on the grass. Where was she? The statistics regarding assualt ran through my head.

"Well, she's got to have gone back to her room," my husband reasoned.

"No, if she were there, she would have called us," I pointed out.

We wandered around and around til my feet felt disembodied from my legs and the Administration was ready for us to leave. This was horrible. Where could she be?

"Surely, she's fine," my husband said.

We slogged our way back to her room, ready to give her room key to her roommate. My eyes stung. Would I not even get to say, "Goodbye?" I knocked on her door. The roommate answered. But, lo and behold, surrounded by a mountain of clothes on her bed was our daughter.

Why hadn't she called? She was busy.

Busy remaking the bed (My husband had used the boring sheets.)

Busy unpacking the suitcases (of course she needed all those clothes).

Busy reorganizing the stuff I'd unpacked (I had done it wrong.)

I had to laugh. With that kind of focus and determination, she'd be just fine. And if she was fine, I would be too. (sniff...sniff.)

Still in Awe

Last night, we went to an Opening Ceremony's party. The party consisted of friends I don't often see (except when dropping off/picking up kids), so I was thrilled to sit down and hear about what was going on in their lives. Then the ceremony began--and I might as well have been sitting in my own living room for all the socializing I did. What an amazing event. Gone was all the banter about pollution , visa crackdowns, and freedom issues , as we all sat mesmorized by Zhang YiMou's amazing production. If you missed it, go to http://www.nbcolympics.com/.

When the last of the fireworks went off and a burning image of the rings went across the screen, we finally got up to go. One guest, pointing out the ceremony's meaningful display of tradition juxtaposed with modern technology, said, "Jana, that's what your book is about." A thrill ran down my spine, as if those 2008 drummers had given their final ba-boom.

Speaking of the book, some fun things have been happening. I was invited to Book Group Expo 2008 (October 24-26) in San Jose (http://www.bookgroupexpo.com/). Also, a great literary blogspot posted a review: http://www.perpetualfolly.blogspot.com/.

A Fun Contest

Just today, a dear writing buddy of mine--Becky Levine-- posted an interview she did with me on her blogspot http://beckylevine.livejournal.com/. If you venture on over by July 28th and leave a comment, she'll enter your name to win an autographed copy of the just-released paperback of My Half of the Sky. Good luck. Happy reading.

The Writing Muse--And Other Contributors--Call To Me

Recently, I received a note from another writer, saying, “I can't muster any enthusiasm for my project. I just want to quit. What do I do if I'm just too tired to write anymore?”
My thoughts? Just quit.
While there is something to be said for having a regular schedule, for writing something--anything--everyday, there is also a point of manuscript overload. When you just can't get excited about your project anymore. When you dread having to drag yourself over to the computer desk. When you'd rather have a mammogram. I believe that's that's the time to back off for a couple days and do something you enjoy. Reading, hiking, playing Scrabble, camping. The writing muse—and others-- will come tapping on your shoulder. I've had it happen many times.
In fact, just this morning, after a few days of camping, I woke up at 4am with plot ideas in my head. Okay, maybe I also woke up at 4am, because I'd left a bunch of lights on in the house for my eldest daughter when she came home from the opening of the Batman movie. And the lights were still on.
I got up to see if she was home. She wasn't. I called her. Surely the movie hadn't gone on for THAT long. When she didn't answer, I texted her. Oh, why had I let her join her friends in such frivolous nonsense? What is wrong with seeing Batman for its second or third showing in the light of day?
As I was fretting over what to do—who did you call at 4am to see if they'd seen your daughter--she called me. She and her friends had stopped for something to eat after the movie. She promised she'd be home soon. That she'd wake me up. So I went back to bed. Only now I worried that perhaps it was TOO late for her to attempt driving home. So I went back downstairs and called her.
“Do you want me to come get you?” I asked. “Are you too tired?”
She said she was fine. That if she got too tired she would pull over and call. I said okay. But I didn't head back for my bed. I knew I couldn't go back to sleep—even if I wanted to. I sat down at the computer and wrote in my journal, checked my e-mail. There were those plot ideas I should probably tackle, but I was concentrating too hard on listening for the sound of a car engine coming up the road. Moments later, my daughter pulled in. The movie had been great. She was tired. Goodnight.
I debated returning to the computer—doing some work on my story. But I thought bed sounded like a fine idea. I would get to the rest of my ideas later. I closed my computer and went upstairs to sleep.
I had just pulled the covers up around my shoulders when I heard a baby's cry outside my window. I listened again. “Meow.” Our cat. I went down and let him in, gave him some food. Then I went back up to bed. Again, I had just settled in when I heard a whining noise. Our dog, wanting to go out. So I went back downstairs and let him out. I returned to my bed. Finally. I put my head to the pillow. Then from outside the window, I heard barking. Our dog. Probably barking at wild boar which like to grovel in our yard—but still barking loud enough that the neighbors would not appreciate this.
I smiled. While maybe I wanted to sleep—to continue this vacation from writing—my writing muse, and various other contributors, had other things in mind.

Characters Just Need To Be...Well, Characters

Recently, I was at the Tech Museum with my youngest daughter, when my cell phone rang.
“Hello?” I said while watching my daughter make a computerized metal sculpture of her head.
“Mom?” a voice over the line whispered. It was my loud teenager. He never whispered. “Mom, there are these people here at the house. They say—they say they used to live here. Wyatt or something like that.”
“Of course--” A loud crackling assaulted my ear. .
“Just a minute,” my teenager called out in a cheery voice, obviously talking to our visitors.
The Wyatts had built our house back in the 70's. I was the first to go looking for them five years after we moved here. We wanted to build a downstairs, to fill in the spaces around the stilts our house rested upon. But the county had no record of our foundation. No building plans. We would either have to find the original plans or pay for a dozen inspections. I got on the internet, searched them down, and wrote them a note. Within a week I not only had the plans, but the ORIGINALS with a note saying, “When you're done, please send them back.” I was blown away by their immediate generosity and trust and willingness to help out. They've stopped through a couple of times since then—and I was glad to know they were back.
There was more crackling on the telephone line. “What did you say?” my son whispered.
“They're wonderful people.” I said. “Don't worry.”
Later in the afternoon, when my brain felt as heavy as a metal sculpture from information overload, I dragged my daughter away from some new friends at the museum—she finds friends everywhere-- and on home.
“So, did you have a nice time with the Wyatts?” I asked my teenager.
“Who?” he asked.
“I thought you said the people who lived here stopped--”
“Oh, those guys,” he said. “It was the daughter and son-in-law.”
“Were they just passing through?” I asked.
“I don't know,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, do they live around here?”
“I don't know.”
“Did they have lots of fun stories to tell?”
“I don't know.”
“Well what did you talk about?”
“Talk?” he said.
“You did talk to them, welcome them,” I said, feeling like I was speaking an alien language.“Right?”
“I said to just go ahead and look around and I went back to the office to work on the computer.”
Oh gawd. I was already forming another note in my head—one of please come see us again.
“What were their names?” I asked, looking for a pen.
“Names?” My teenager gave me his sheepish dimpled grin.
“You didn't even ask their names?!”
“They had a black G35,” he said.
“A what?” Was this a new kind of dog?
“You know,“ he said. “A Lexus.”
But of course. A car.
“Too bad it was a four-door,” he lamented. “The two-door is much sicker.”
“You noticed their car, “I said. “But not them?”
He offered that dimpled grin again.
“Too bad your little sister wasn't here,” I said.“She would have given them a tour, and invited them for dinner and a sleepover.”
“Well, at least it wasn't Poaji,” he countered. “He would have called you and put the phone in the middle of the living room—on speaker—so you could talk to them. At least I invited them in.”
Ha! I couldn't stop laughing. I guess there's a multitude of possibilities for the definition of the word “invite.” Depending on the character interpreting that word. Which brings me to the point of this little story.
We often worry about giving our characters lots of baggage—divorce, child abuse, bankruptcy, alcoholism, history of failure, etc, etc. etc. But, as my kids remind me (again and again) the bags need not be filled with too much history for the characters to be so diverse in personality, interests, use of the English language. :) The characters just have to have their own personal wants, interests, goals. They just need to be fresh, believable, possessing their own unique peculiarities. They just need to be, well, characters.