BACKSTORY Chapter 16:  Acting Lessons by Emmet

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Backstory    16        16b

In class, the focus was character. We read excerpts from classic novels to observe the development of famous characters, both lead and supporting, from a variety of literary traditions: Anna Karenina, Raskolnikov, Madame Bovary, Pere Goriot, Becky Thatcher, Frankie Adams. We also read excerpts from authors’ journals, to see how their personal observations were reflected in their writing. Thursday I began with a short lecture. “Part of what writing is all about is examining truth. I realize this is a very ambiguous concept, and seemingly contradictory to the nature of fiction, which by definition is not true, is made up. But, at the risk of sounding lofty, through writing fiction – whether it be short stories, novels, plays, poetry –  you’re investigating people, how people interact, how they behave with one another, or other creatures, or nature, or God. It’s all about behavior. And by truth, I mean, all good writing should show some insight into humanity. Why are you writing about what you’re writing? It should be apparent, it should be obvious, yet subtle at the same time. When you create characters, you should know them, and keep them in character, which is part of being truthful.” Then I announced the next assignment. “With that in mind, I want you to devote five to seven pages to describing a character – real or imagined. Get into who this person is. I want to know and understand them by the end of those pages. Due a week from tomorrow.”

Hands shot up. “Does it have to be a real person?” No. “Can we make up the character?” Yes. “Can it be someone we’ve already written about?” No. This is a new assignment, new writing. I added, “Look at the characters we’ve been reading about this week. How, in one sentence, Flaubert can give you a feel for who Emma Bovary is, the way McCullers lets us sense Frankie’s age and dreams sometimes ambiguously, sometimes specifically spelling them out. And how both characters represent more than just themselves, but capture an essence of the times – both in society and personally.” “But those are classic writers!” someone complained. “And Madame Bovary is so annoying,” Grace said. “Annoying does not mean poor character development,” I responded. She thought for a moment. “True. I guess he develops her, you know, personality well, so you see both how she looks at things from inside, and how she appears, from outside.” “Exactly. And yes, these are classic writers. I’m not going to give you examples of poor writing as models. These authors should inspire. Just let yourselves go and enjoy your assignment.”

The bell rang.

***** Got extra time again with Grace on Friday; Lisa was still working on a story and wanted to wait a week, and the time with Russell went quickly, and there we were. “So, did you do your assignments?” I began. She opened her folder, handed me a new copy of “What You Need to Know,” said, “Well, mostly.” “Mostly? Meaning…?” “Okay. I revised it, like you said. And here – ” she handed me a single sheet, the cover letter for TriQuarterly – “I sent this off. But. I haven’t left the story lying around yet.” “Any plans to do that?” I asked. Instead of answering, Grace handed me a new story. “I didn’t finish this one till really late, so I couldn’t get it to you before.”

I glanced through the pages. “Instruments of Change,” it was called. I started to read while she watched me, aware of her eyes upon me as I read her words. The violin lay untouched in its case for 37 years, preserved yet hollow, merely a shell of cherry wood and catgut without the owner’s touch, waiting perhaps to be discovered once again, or perhaps not, content to sit encased indefinitely; it was, after all, merely a man-made instrument. As with all Grace’s stories, I continued, mesmerized, until the end. When I looked up, I realized there were only a few minutes left. “I wrote comments as I went along,” I said. “I like the indirect action.” “What do you mean?” “Indirect action is where you hear about significant events important to the story through characters describing those events or actions. We, as readers, don’t see the actual event, we hear about it, filtered through the eyes of the character. Chekhov was a pioneer of this literary technique. ‘Instruments,’ and, really, many of your other stories, reminds me of Chekhov’s short stories.”

“Chekhov?” she said. “I thought Chekhov just, like, wrote plays.” “That’s what he’s most famous for. You know, I think Act Two Theatre is doing The Cherry Orchard, which we should definitely see.” I said we. Not you. “But he also wrote many incredible short stories, and some of your work is written in that tradition. Maybe you were Russian in a past life.” I smiled at the image. “I have some of Chekhov’s short-story collections. Some first editions in Russian.”

“You can read Russian?” she asked. “Another thing you didn’t know about me,” I said. “Studied it in college. I also have an early English translation, from 1901. There’s something about reading a book published around the time the author wrote it that’s really inspiring.” “Oh yes,” she enthused. “I love old books. There’s this awesome used book store down by University of Chicago I go to sometimes.” “Powell’s – I used to live there when I was in graduate school at the U of C.” The warning bell rang, startling me even though I had anticipated it. “I think you’d enjoy Chekhov’s stories. Anyway – you never answered  my question. Any definitive plans on letting other people read  your story?” “Okay, okay. This week. I will.”

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