<![CDATA[My Site - Blog]]>Mon, 31 Oct 2022 01:01:37 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[Writer's Workshop: Using Real Life Images in Fiction]]>Sat, 15 Nov 2014 04:33:07 GMThttp://dianabollmann.weebly.com/blog/writers-workshop-using-real-life-images-in-fiction Where does inspiration come from? From idle thoughts? The media? Personal experience? One simple technique I found for jump-starting a story is the use of visual images from everyday life. The following scenario took place at a post office parking lot in Scottsdale, Arizona, several days before Halloween.

A middle-aged woman pulled into the space next to mine as I exited my car. My eyes detected an oddity inside the woman’s vehicle. I paused for a second look, humored by my observations. Seat-belted to the passenger side of her Ford Focus sat a life-sized skeleton. Yes, a skeleton.

I had two choices: (1) speak to the woman, listen to what she had to say, and note the details; or (2) flash her a crooked smile and let the imprint of the image speak for itself at a later time. The former option, I believe, works well for those interested in writing narrative non-fiction. Consider the following example: 

Let’s say you discover the woman volunteers at the Phoenix Children’s Hospital and is on her way there to stage a Halloween party for a group of sick kids. She tells you she’s been taking “Benny Bones,” her skeleton and favored mascot, to the children’s ward for years, since her son’s untimely passing in ‘94. How is her story best retold?

Narrative non-fiction uses a variety of literary techniques to account for actual events: characterization, plot, setting, dialogue, narrative and personal reflection. Through the use of these techniques, I’d spotlight this woman’s story as one of pathos, hope and renewed purpose through selfless service.  

The second option is an excellent choice for fiction writers, like myself, in need of a creative catalyst. It’s one of my favorites and easy to employ. Simply select a visual image from your mental cache of possibilities and write. Allow the image to breathe on its own, without imposing preconceived ideas about the story’s objective or outcome. The end product: a dazzling tale spun from the interaction between a sensate experience and your imagination.

The skeleton contains within its iconic imagery, a rich source for writers of contemporary works and assorted fictional genres. The arrival of a protagonist (the woman) adds additional vitality and interest to the piece. For horror writers, the woman could be a specter who combs cemeteries and morgues, recruiting undead soldiers for a world-wide army against an evil zombie dictator. Authors of mystery, might see the woman as a murderer, who travels by car with the remains of her latest victim. The possibilities for plot variations in this instance are endless. Try using a single image as your muse and see for yourself. 



]]><![CDATA[A developing Character Steps Forward]]>Fri, 05 Sep 2014 16:00:23 GMThttp://dianabollmann.weebly.com/blog/a-developing-character-steps-forwardHe entered the restaurant—a handsome seven foot tall twenty-something—slick black hair, charcoal-colored jumpsuit, thermal vest, combat boots. A look you don’t often see in Phoenix, but it worked nonetheless. I waved him over, his green agate eyes locked on me from across the room.

“Hello,” he said.

It was our first in-person meeting—his email, arriving a week earlier:

Him: Your E-Ticket story came to my attention through portal impress streaming. 

Our online chat continued . . .

Me: Who are you?

Him: I’m J.S.—from the future.

Me: Another internet ruse, but I’ll play along. What’s your real name?

Him: I cannot say. My unique situation demands anonymity.

Me: Alright . . . then what’s portal impress streaming?

Him: It’s how people receive multi-dimensional information, similar to the way light travels through space. 

He further explained the concept of thought forms (waves of subatomic energy amassed over the collective), how he’d picked up his name as a thought form off a working sci-fi draft posted on my iCloud account.

Me: The iCloud—a likely story. Why is your situation unique? 

Him: In future time, I’m presently captured by a league of mutant Commandos who are after an item of indeterminate value currently within my reach. They’re holding me prisoner beneath the Sacred Spine, a mountain range in the Western Sector of what was once the United States.

This can’t be what I think it is. The grilled cheese sandwich I’d just eaten morphed into a clump of paper mache inside my stomach. I hesitated, then typed my next question.   

Me: Any chance you’re from Megira? 

Him: Yes.

Me: And do you have a partner, N—?

Again yes. My eyes fell over the screen in unfocused disbelief. I should’ve picked up on the initials. He wasn’t an editor with a quirky new recruitment shtick or an agent scouting for sci-fi authors as I’d imagined . . .

Me: You’re my protagonist!

Him: I thought that was understood.

Me: This is crazy. What do you want?

Him: Let’s get together.

Me: You’re kidding, right? Where?

J.S.: Phoenix, downtown.



We’d set the meeting for 1:00 PM at Sam’s Luncheonette off Jackson Street. Unaccustomed to the pulse of the city proper, I entered the building at 12:45, still wondering if I’d made a mistake. The sequestering comfort of a black walnut booth on this cloudy winter day—its tall backs and reddish-brown leather seats, rubbed smooth from years of use—seemed like a good choice. 

“How was your . . . flight?” I said, with a wry grin, after I’d waved him over.

“I’m not an alien, nor do I travel by spacecraft, if that’s what you’re implying. You created me, remember?” he said, taking a seat.

“How, again?”

“With your thoughts, or what you call ‘imagination.’”

“But how did you get from my story to here?”

His abridged explanation involved warped space, time travel and cosmic gateways, or wormholes. 

“There’s a Light House exhibit at your nearby Science Center that I used as a final point of entry. Tourists think of it as a source of amusement with its mirrored cubes and rainbows of reflected light. But for Futurists like myself, we manipulate that same light for travel across fourth-dimensional space-time.”

“Wow. This is unbelievable. But somehow you’re—”

“May I share some knowledge I’ve acquired from living in 2153?” A play of umber shadows skittered tiger-like stripes across his face as he leaned over the table.   

“Pay attention to your thoughts. They’re powerful vortices of cosmic energy and must be treated with great respect. You can heal, create—even destroy with your mind.” 

“You do these things?” I said, an acknowledging nod to the waitress for serving us coffee. 

“Not exactly. We’re still neophytes. But there’s a group of genetically modified half-humans, the O—’s, who’ve mastered those skills.”

Part of me knew his admonitions were true. That trip to the carnival when I was seven? Game booth. The prized china figurine. Walking away, empty-handed after several tries at the ring toss. And still, I wouldn’t let it go. That porcelain lady, dressed in lace, stayed in my head to the point of obsession. Until . . . a gift-giving stranger appeared from the throng and offered me a replica of that same figurine. Was this interaction a mere serendipitous play of events? Or did I conjure up this wish-fulfilling Samaritan by thinking him into existence?

“Ugh, this is worse than mulroot grot,” J.S. said, sipping his coffee.

“Well, it works for us twenty-fourteeners, that’s for sure. So—why’d you come? You never said.”

“You’re a writer. You inspire others through your stories. It’s time for the truth, Diana.”

“About what?”

“Thought awareness is the beginning of self-discovery. If you curb negative thinking and focus on the workings of your mind, you’ll begin to see yourself in a new light. Consider this meeting as lesson one. They’ll be others, but first I must extricate myself, and N—, from this intolerable situation you have authored.”

He stood by the booth, the magnitude of his stature, impressive.  

“The outcome to my story is already written, though it may not seem clear to you. I’m acting out the script because that’s what I must do. It’s all the same,” J.S. said, his cautionary tone abated.

“What is?”

“The past, future. Neither exist, actually.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s not important at this juncture. Just stay present,” he said, his hand over mine. “We’ll talk again.”

When he left, I took a moment to savor my unique experience with a character come to life. His suggestions played in my head, intermingled with the vividness of my surroundings: the velvety taste of mocha on my tongue, the window speckled with intermittent drops of rain, the heated air brushing against my cheeks from overhead vents. I glanced toward the door, his absence noted by a hint of nostalgia ruffling through my bones. What’s next? I wondered—until I remembered the Science Center, a few blocks away.  

 



]]><![CDATA[What's happened to this place?]]>Wed, 02 Jul 2014 04:14:03 GMThttp://dianabollmann.weebly.com/blog/whats-happened-to-this-placeWhat the hell happened here? Those were my first thoughts when I entered our neighborhood Starbucks after its scheduled two week renovation. True, I expected a few adjustments and some cosmetic alterations—but the changes to what was once a charming respite from the daily grind, bordered on what I consider an “unpropitious remodel.”

In all fairness to this establishment, the new setup wasn’t exactly post-apocalyptic in its presentation. Quite the contrary. When I walked inside, I saw display cases adroitly adorned with products; a barista bar expanding the width of the store—its new equipment glistening in the ambient light; and a cluster of tables and chairs, locked in their spaces like exhibits at a museum.

Now why would I liken this freshly-coiffed setting to such a negative descriptor? Let’s begin with science. A study conducted at Florida State University examined the sociopsychological dynamics involved in different types of coffee houses. The article suggests several key functions performed by coffee houses: they (1) afford guests a sense of community or—if needed—anonymity while still close to others; (2) offer a safe place to relax from the more demanding roles in life; and (3) provide a neutral environment for completing work or personal tasks. Seating preferences and configurations were also addressed by the study’s author, Dr. Lisa Waxman. When given a choice, most patrons select seats that are either sheltered, along a wall, or proximal to an architectural feature (a pivotal point in this discussion).

Call me a romantic, but prior to its reconstruction, I treasured this particular Starbucks more than most in Phoenix. Reminiscent of tucked-away cafés in Europe, with its cozy, laid-back feel, I imagined myself transported to a time when notable writers and artists congregated in such places. Immersed in my fantasies, I’d nestle in a corner and write, energized by the electric hum of my imagination coursing through my body.

But the joy I’d experienced for the past several years, however, was over in a fortnight. My peaceful days of writing had ended with the first blast of a jackhammer against the shop’s porcelain tiled floor. The comfy nooks—gone. The easy chairs and extra task tables—missing. Instead, a meager arrangement of tables now sits stoically within the center space: three tall bistros, one sizable farmhouse, and four small desks. True, seating is available outside. But at what price? When it comes to thermal comfort, my creative juices flow best within the 70º-80º range. So what if that makes me a diva? How can I write when it’s 108º and my fingers are melting onto the keyboard? 

It’s not personal, it’s business . . .

Since reading Dr. Waxman’s article, the word “camper” has taken on a different connotation to mean “a term given by coffee shop staff to patrons who often sit and stay for hours.” The word applies to core groups of people: students, retirees, professionals and, of course, writers, who linger in these establishments because of what is offered—a relaxed, workable microcosm embedded within the greater scope of today’s stressed-out world. Why not provide a pleasant hangout for this group? From an outsider’s perspective, it makes sense. But for business proprietors?   

Although campers purchase food and beverages like other guests, they interfere with the rate of turnover by hogging seats normally available to newcomers. People get ticked off, leave, then look for a better place to drink their cup of joe. And what happens next? A loss to the business—in clientele and potential revenue. 

It’s no coincidence the renovation turned out as it did. Because it was planned, purposive. By eliminating the preferential seating that encourages lingerers to stay, the problem was solved. To me, it was a disappointing loss that brought to mind the question: How can we as a society balance human needs with monetary concerns? 

Even before the beginning of this millennium, Americans have allowed the gradual infestation of technological advancements, guised as conveniences and purveyors of enjoyment, to overwhelm and usurp our power. Texts, tweets and posts on various social networks deplete our souls of personal contact and connection with others. Add to the mix the rise in crime and global unrest; our weakened financial backbone; and an increasing number of fractured families throughout the country. The result—a nation, teeming with life, yet lonely and alienated at its core. 

The golden age of this twenty-first century allows us newfound hope and optimism for our future on this planet. With peaceful coexistence as our focus, we can search for ways to better meet our survival and emotional needs and improve the quality of our lives. The success of this plan, however, will require a colossal shift in consciousness, a greater compassion toward others and reassessment of outmoded priorities. This campaign must begin at the community level with a redesign of public and commercial spaces to facilitate, not discourage, a sense of kinship among its members. By achieving a balance between enterprise and the well-being of people everywhere, we—as humans—can have it all.

*Waxman, L. (2006). The Coffee Shop: Social and Physical factors Influencing Place Attachment. Journal of Interior Design, 31(3), 35-53.

]]><![CDATA[Egg Harbor: A Fictional Character Looks at Death]]>Wed, 28 May 2014 16:24:14 GMThttp://dianabollmann.weebly.com/blog/egg-harbor-a-fictional-character-looks-at-deathThe start of World War II marked the advent of an era of personal loss for people worldwide. Families faced death with greater regularity, their sorrows the outcome of times fraught with mass hatred and disrespect for humankind. How people dealt with this tragedy varied across the diverse predispositions of societies at war—their culture, personal preferences and emotional inclinations the added influence.    

In my short story Egg Harbor, the Mueller family experiences the impact of death beyond the scope of war-related loss. Though only a few of their relations perished in battle, the Reaper still sought after the clan’s numerous older and weaker individuals residing in Jersey’s South Shore. Rooted in a German subculture, they honored their dead with stoic pride, doing whatever was necessary to survive their grief. But their hearts remained closed to their real feelings hidden beneath the crusted surface of uncertainty and trepidation. 

The narration is seen through the eyes of twelve year old Carl Mueller, the family’s youngest member. He layers the circumstances surrounding his grandmother Oma’s passing over his struggle to handle death as it interfaced with the limited experiences of his daily life. Alienated from his relatives by age and childhood innocence, Carl seeks to understand the play of events through attention and observation of adult behaviors. 

Their affectations, however, offer him little comfort or insight. Within the haze of a smoke-filled kitchen, Carl watches his family feast on bratwurst and beer to a medley of pop 40’s tunes piped through a player piano. Their concerns for Carl’s emotional welfare wither into safe inquiries about his physical appearance and grade in school, the offering of a plateful of food an acceptable substitute for genuine interaction. 

While Carl eats his lunch across from his grandmother’s open casket, his second cousin, Greta Schultz, joins him in the parlor. She asks if he’s doing okay, but Carl is too overwhelmed by the influx of stimuli and the immanent presence of death to discuss the matter. 

His untapped feelings remain a vague and muddy collage of disturbing images that haunt him throughout his stay in Egg Harbor. He recoils at the thought of dying in one’s sleep (like his Oma) and worries over his mother’s possible demise, when he views her wrinkled face and graying hair at the Rosary service the night before the funeral. Other occurrences trouble Carl as well: the imagined appearance of his Aunt Dora’s ghost in the bedroom; the neighbor boy’s cold indifference to life after the boy kills a crow in the woods; and his Auntie Bess’s surprising leap onto his grandmother’s coffin after it’s lowered into the ground.

The passing of an acquaintance, friend or loved one, in my opinion, brings the soul to light as it views the finality of loss from a limited third dimensional perspective. The pause button activated, we still our hearts to face the unfathomable reality of the immutable disappearance of someone we knew. We texture our confusion within the maelstrom of impending change, the inevitable question a torment to our consciousness: Where has he/she gone? 

At the story’s end, Carl reaches his own conclusions as to his Oma’s whereabouts—a fate we all must face as humans bound to this earth. For some, the scientific approach to this conundrum works best. Others choose faith and surrender as their cornerstone of peace. 

The Muslim’s refer to the term inshallah, or God’s will, to explain future occurrences both in this world and the cosmos. On a personal note, I, too, believe my life is the joyous expression of God’s work. Everything I do is scripted by His hand. Where fate leads me in death is not my concern—if I trust in this process. With our Creator’s assistance, the evolution of humankind will lead us to a greater awareness of the true source of our being. Once that level of intelligence and understanding is reached, the question of where we go when we die will then lose its significance.

 





 

 




     























































































]]><![CDATA[Choice, Destiny and Lila Roth, Protagonist]]>Wed, 02 Apr 2014 02:34:00 GMThttp://dianabollmann.weebly.com/blog/choice-destiny-and-lila-roth-protagonistRevisiting January’s blog . . . 

In the poem “The Road Not Taken,” Frost speaks of choosing one of two diverging roads along a wooded path. His I’ll-take-this-and-not-that method of decision making seems a bit simplistic and two-dimensional, considering the magnitude of the selective process as it interfaces with our everyday lives. The subject of choice brings to mind the idea of free will and its polar opposite, preordination—a topic under considerable scrutiny in most Western circles. I suggest we leave the comforts of this proverbial “forest” to seek a broader perspective on this matter.     

In my short story, “Cherry Flavored,” Lila Roth perceives herself in total control of her actions. She chooses a college out west, believing the move was of her own doing, though precipitated by parental stresses: her father’s harsh indifference, her mother’s selfish extravagance. What if the intolerable conflict at home was a ruse, perpetrated by destiny’s hand,  causing Lila to move to a more suitable environment, where her true gifts and talents might prosper?

The concept of predetermination versus choice plays an important thematic role throughout the movie, “Slumdog Millionaire.” In the opening scene of the movie, a title card reads: Jamal Malik is one question away from winning 20 Million Rupees. How did he do it? Four answer choices are presented: (A) He cheated, (B) He's lucky, (C) He's a genius, and (D) It is written. In that context, "it is written" is similar in meaning to "it is fated" or "it is destiny.” Option D, in this instance, is deemed correct. If destiny or fate does in fact exist (as intimated in the screenplay), what is its effect on the precept of choice, or free will? 

Consider Lila’s upbringing. Born into New York City’s aristocracy, the stage is set for her to begin a life of privilege and opportunity. Her birthright is the foundation on which her life is built. Yet how did this initial meetup with her parents come about? From a random mixture of DNA within a given genetic cesspool? Or was this Lila’s doing from a higher, more cosmic vantage point preceding her birth?

Many Eastern factions, in contrast to Western Judeo-Christian ideology, use reincarnation (the rebirth of a soul in a new body) as a springboard for their understanding of worldly existence. The corporeal experience is likened to a play or movie, scripted by an individual prior to a particular birth for the purpose of working on specific issues in the upcoming incarnation. There is no free will, they say. Nor is the process of rebirth a haphazard or accidental phenomenon. 

Throughout the story, Lila struggles with the play of her life against the backdrop of her past. She adopts a defensive posture of indifference and apathy, which warp her interactions with others at every turn. Finding her own power in a substructure of decay—with both her family and roommates, Esther and Stewart—is a daily challenge. At the story’s conclusion, Lila teeters on the jagged edge of a difficult decision. Tempted by an easy fix to her problems, she then makes an impactful choice, redirecting the course of her life across unexplored terrain.

Was Lila’s choice the result of a predetermined outcome? The answer, I believe, rests in a indeterminate morass of speculation and uncertainty. Or is our time-honored ignorance in this matter fated as well?



 







]]><![CDATA[Mount Kailash . . . Why That Picture?]]>Tue, 11 Feb 2014 00:48:49 GMThttp://dianabollmann.weebly.com/blog/mount-kailash-why-that-pictureThen—

Attending a Roman Catholic high mass can make a lasting impression, especially when experienced through the young eyes of a six year old girl. The day my mother led me into St. Boniface, with its tall white spire piercing the gray winter sky, I somehow knew I had stepped out of my ordinary existence into something mystical and otherworldly.  

We first sat on the hard wooden pew, waiting for the priest and his assistants to enter the building. When they came through the inner door, they seemed to glide down the aisle in a ghostly manner—the metallic threads in their vestments glistening like stardust in the ambient light. The lead priest set the pace, holding a golden censer, which he swung from side to side, as the spicy aroma of frankincense puffed through its many holes. They chanted in Latin, keeping cadence with the clink-clink of the censer’s chain—the music hypnotic, peaceful. 

When the service ended, I knew I had to return. With each subsequent visit, the impact of this spiritual experience was seeded deeper into my consciousness. I sensed the presence of something far greater than myself that needed further investigation.

And so began my lifelong quest . . .

Now—

Located in the Tibetan Himalayas, Mount Kailash is renowned as a sacred space throughout the world. For Hindus, the mountain, nearly 22,000 feet in elevation, is the abode of Lord Shiva, the destroyer of ego and identification with the physical form. For Tibetans, the pilgrimage leads one from ignorance to enlightenment, from self-centeredness and materialistic preoccupations to a deep sense of the relativity and interconnectedness of all life. 

This mountain speaks to me in what it represents: the removal of ignorance and illusion and oneness with the Source. And the road—

I hope, will take me there. 

]]><![CDATA[The Road Not Taken]]>Fri, 31 Jan 2014 06:07:33 GMThttp://dianabollmann.weebly.com/blog/the-road-not-taken1I grew up in New York. Long Island, actually. The high school I attended was a mile away from my house. Yes, I’m one of those nostalgics who can truly say I walked the two mile round trip trek through rain, sleet and snow, even without the luxury of an iPod attached to my frostbitten ears with a set of portable headphones. 

Finding a worthwhile way to occupy the time as I walked to school took a bit of creative ingenuity. Thanks to a few inspiring teachers who infused my adolescent brain with the best of classic poetry and literature, I traveled to school reciting some of my favorite verses to myself. With this method as my distraction—I got to school on time, lulled by the rhythm of iambic verse, ready to feast on the day’s designated smorgasbord of knowledge.  

Among the many poems I enjoyed, Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” topped my list of cherished musings. The metaphor equating my lifeline with an “off the beaten” chosen path, resonated with my young view of the world. Further research, however, brought to light a new understanding of the poem’s underlying truths—that it’s not about congratulating ourselves for traveling through life on a less traveled route. 

What it comes down to is this: 1. We make choices, knowing we won’t have the opportunity to try all of them on for size. 2. Neither of the roads is less traveled by—the choices presented to us in life, though appearing different, are equally the same. 3. Indecisiveness and remorse have plagued human nature throughout history, causing us to place blame or aggrandize past events to compensate for our frailties and disappointments. 

Personally, this new slant on Frost’s poem hit my ego hard across my sense of individualism. How dare they thrust me into banality when I was doing so well imagining myself the curious explorer? This, my friends, requires considerable thought. Perhaps another fork in my road awaits on the horizon?

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