Blocks and Dolls: Playing My Way Back to Work
by Didi Wood
This should be simple: write an essay about some aspect of reading or writing for the Editor's Corner.
I should also work on my novel, and maybe dash off a few new flash stories, while I'm at it.
But no. I'm not writing. There are a million reasons why not, each as flimsy yet impenetrable as the next. It's not that I don't have ideas. But every idea seems inadequate before it's even expressed, the characters too similar to those I've written about before, the plot — if there even is a plot — not original enough to justify the opening of a new file, the effort of depressing letters on the keyboard.
It has to do with editing, I know, with not being able to switch off that part of my brain when I need to. How can one judge a story before it's even written? And yet I do, endlessly, constantly. Stupidly. So what? I demand of each nascent glimmer of story. There is no reply.
It has to do with perfectionism, with having to choose between caging that fluid wisp of story with brittle, futile words or watching it dissipate, unspoiled but lost, into the air. Which? How to choose? I watch it go.
And so I'm not writing. Not much, anyway. Not as much as I should.
Instead, I'm playing with dolls. Six months ago, I snickered at grown women who collected dolls, wondering what was lacking in their lives, shuddering at the thought of something more to dust. Now, somehow, I find myself with a small collection of Pullip and Taeyang dolls from Japan. I name them, dress them, pose them; I braid their hair; I rip off their wigs and stick on new ones. I order tiny platform Mary Janes from a sweet eBay seller in Hong Kong. I knit fluffy doll hats, and I make tiny necklaces with magnetic clasps. And I take photos — hundreds of photos — and tell myself it's about expressing something visually, for a change, instead of with futile, empty, useless words.
My husband eyes the row of big-eyed faces on the bedroom mantel and wonders aloud if I was deprived of dolls as a child. Some of my friends wonder if I've lost my mind. Even I am not sure what about these dolls captivates me so: I cannot explain why a sane, responsible, reasonable adult would choose to waste time in this manner.
Time that could have been — should have been — spent writing.
It's funny, though, how writers are always writing, even when they're not. Stories find a way out, like weeds through concrete. I bought a tiny plush skeleton — a wonderful blend of cute and creepy — and decided that Rue should hold it. She's my odd-eyed, silver-haired girl, and it complemented her sweet-but-slightly-off demeanor. I tried various poses, and ended up with her cradling it next to her ear, as if listening to its dark whispers, her eyes wide and troubled. And then I heard her voice: "What's that, ChouChou? ... Who must die? ... But I don't want to do that!"
I was ridiculously pleased with this. Just a single pose, a single photo, a single line of dialogue, but there's a whole story implicit there. I knew, suddenly, who Rue was (sweet but slightly mad, and possibly dangerous), and how the others viewed her (eccentric but harmless). The tension between the two was titillating.
I ordered a Dal, the pouty-faced, younger-sister counterpart to Pullip and Taeyang. She has dark hair, like my Bella, and I thought she might be Bella's younger sister. But why, I wondered, would Bella's sister come to live with her? Where was Bella living, anyway?
And suddenly (it felt like suddenly, although of course it had been brewing for months), I knew who each of my dolls was, and the nature of his or her relationship to the others. Ash is both enthusiastic and thoughtless, devoted to whatever manages to capture his attention at the moment. Cersei is level-headed enough not to fall prey to Ash's charms again (oh, yes, there's a history between them), but she's lonely, which makes her vulnerable to missteps. Bella relishes her rough-and-tumble sexual rapport with Ash. She's fiercely loyal to her friends, and to her teenaged sister, April, who arrived unexpectedly, looking for a home among this peculiar group. Rue is Ash's agoraphobic cousin, susceptible to whispers from the sinister skeleton doll. Pink-haired Peyton wasn't so easy to peg — in fact, a friend once remarked that she looked as if she had a secret — and that became her identity: she's the one the others don't quite know, and don't quite trust. I imagine them living together in a crumbling Victorian mansion inherited by Ash, paying him rent and trying to keep the house from falling in on them.
Characters. Relationships. A setting. Sounds like a story, doesn't it? But where does it begin? An upcoming Taeyang release is a sober-looking gentleman who resembles Rue — in fact, he could be her brother. What is he like, I find myself wondering, and what would happen to the precarious balance of personalities in the house if he were to come? I picture Cersei, Bella, and Peyton at one of the cracked upstairs windows, watching as Ash's Jeep roars into the driveway in a cloud of dust. Rue greets her brother, who leans heavily on a cane. Why a cane? I don't know yet. "He looks creepy," Peyton murmurs. The others are silent, wondering how the arrival of this stranger will affect their lives.
Because it will. Oh, yes. That's how stories begin — with a change, a problem, something at risk.
Will all this lead to publication? Probably not — unless there's a market for a gothic Melrose Place — but that doesn't matter. What's important is that I've found my way back to playing with characters: listening to them speak, watching them interact, and trying to capture it with words. Futile, maybe, but fun. The way it used to be.
Didi Wood's stories have appeared in Vestal Review, Smokelong Quarterly, Night Train, Cezanne's Carrot, and other print and online publications. She is fully aware that the introduction of new characters into the doll drama may necessitate the purchase of more dolls. It's a risk she's willing to take.