Characterization and the Southern art of storytelling
Thanks for letting me be a guest blogger today! My name is Dawn Wilson, and I could tell you all of this boring information about where I went to school and
yada, yada, yada, but what I really want to do is tell you a story:
In college, I was dating this wonderful guy—a very talented musician who gave lessons at the not-too-far-away
Old Dominion University. Originally from
Iowa, he was a sweet guy (it didn’t work out, but that’s another blog…) I remember one day he turned to me very seriously, as if he was about to open the door to one of the most incredible secrets of life:
“Dawn…I just realized something.” He looked around, as if he would get in trouble if someone were listening. “Women rule the South. If it were not for women, the South would fall apart. Fall. Apart.”
He then tells me story after story of university students---guys from the North side of the Mason Dixon Line—and how they seem to be inevitably attracted to a
Southern belle.
“As soon as they go out with her—it’s over,” he told me. “It’s over. They have no idea. He’s hopelessly in love even if he doesn’t realize it yet. He’ll break up with her, and the next thing you know, he’s begging her to take him back. Women rule the South.”
I’ve never lived outside of the South, but I can tell you that at least in
North Carolina, storytelling is an Olympic sport. As a writer,
I believe characterization is the key to a believable and well-rounded storyline, and if women rule the South –at least in the opinion of my old boyfriend—, strong characters rule the story. In my opinion, it’s really what transforms a good story into a great one, and keeps characters from becoming stereotypes or stock characters.
My second novel, “Leaving the Comfort Café” is about a redneck girl (Blythe) who gets a 1600 on the SAT, a full scholarship to Cornell, but never goes. Instead, she simply waits tables at the Comfort Café, a mom-and-pop restaurant in
Eastern North Carolina . Austin (one of the aforementioned wonderful guys who happen to be born on the other side of the Mason Dixon line) is the new town manager who finds out that his master’s degree is no match for the well-oiled machinery of the Good ol’ Boy network of Southern politics.
Austin is determined to discover why Blythe gave up on her dreams.
Blythe sprang, in a very real way, from my own desire to reinvent myself. You see, when you grow up in an area rich in storytelling, often, the stories may be about you. In the small town of Weaverville, NC—just outside of Asheville—everyone knew my parents, my sister, my cousins, etc. Worse, if I did anything wrong at school, the news usually made its way to my mom before I got off the afternoon school bus! As I got older, I tried to reconcile who I was with who folks perceived me to be (an experience I’m sure as universal as teenage angst). Then I wondered—like so many writers do—‘what if…’
What if I simply vanished, drove to a small town on the coast, changed my name, dyed my hair purple and waited tables? There would be no pressure to behave, no pressure to make good grades, and no pressure to have the town record for memorizing the most Bible verses for
Sunday School. I could wear what I wanted, paint my fingernails black, burn my bra, cuss, smoke, and even be a slut if I so desired.
Of course, we all realize that imagination and the desire to runaway are not an excuse to shirk responsibility, but in that moment, Blythe was born; a young woman desperately trying to run away from home---only to realize she was actually running away from herself.
Once you develop a character, it’s almost as if he or she takes over the story entirely, and you go from someone who is creating a story to someone who is merely dictation the action of the character.
Blythe is…well, here’s a short excerpt from novel. I like it because it gives you an idea of what a firecracker she is. Here, she goes to the town hall during a hurricane warning….
The fax machine vomited a continuous stream of PSAs…
information from the Red Cross, speaking points for the media, and how to start up the Tower of Babel to get materials and aid from the state. The early afternoon sun didn’t have its regular intensity, and instead of its hearty shine, it eked a pale yellow glow that seemed to cover everything with a nauseating film.
A slamming door bolted Austin’s heart in to his throat. He was greeted by a flurry of tangerine tresses wrapped in a tartan scarf. Blythe was trying to pull off her oversized raincoat—the perfect shade of army-issue green.
“Lord, but that wind is cold,” she said carelessly dumping her outer layers of clothing onto the floor: the raincoat, a sweater vest. “When wind has that chill, you know something’s up. You wouldn’t believe the line at the gas stations.” She held her head between her legs and shook her hair, as if to expel imaginary snow flurries out of her permed, re-permed and permed-too-often-again hair.
“What, what are you doing here? W-we’re closed.” Austin couldn’t think of anything better to say.
“No kidding. Everybody’s closed.” She eased into a lobby chair and propped her gray vinyl boots on a cherry wood table that Austin feared was an antique.
“I came to bring you something.” She somehow withdrew a Styrofoam tray from the army coat.
“Thanks.”
“Thanks, nothing. The owners and I were the only ones who weren’t battening down the hatches this morning. We got into the Comfort and we’re all braced for these farmers to come in, foul weather brings them in for one last stop before they hunker down, we whip up this mess of bacon, eggs, hash browns, what have you, and find that hardly anyone shows up. Usually we have a mess of people at the diner in questionable weather. You know it’s the only place in town where you can get a decent cup of joe. Even when the power’s off. We can still get you a good cup of joe.”
“Right.”
“We even put the BIG pot of coffee on.” She spread her arms wide as if the BIG pot was some Holy Grail only taken out for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs. If you’d like to hear more about the writing process, below is a link to a radio interview I did with “Book Beat.” (and don’t worry, I don’t charge extra for the Eastern North Carolina accent.)
http://www.carrborobookbeat.com/podcasts/audio/090907wilson.mp3
I’d like to thank Emma for having me on her blog today---and thank you for reading!
I have a list of resources for writers and some links to my short stories on my blog: www.noveltrails.blogspot.com . Please feel free to stop by for a visit…
…I may even put the BIG pot of coffee on….
PS.
If women really do rule the South, I never got that memo.
Thanks to Emma for the opportunity to guest-blog here! 
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