Juliet, Juliet, Wherefore Art Thou Naked?

It was a cold and foggy holiday afternoon, a sharp wind from off-shore nudging Vaughn and me bit by bit, over and over, up the side of the dunes as we walked along Ocean Beach, white mocha and pumpkin spice latte in hands, gusts of sand sweeping over and into our shoes, waiting to be deposited in large mounds on the floor of the N Judah, much as the seeds of flowers propagate themselves by coating the legs of bees. Every so often, we would notice that we were walking at a distinct tilt and regain the flat sand, only to once more be guided by fate, or the wind, rather. Fate and the wind are rather similar to the naked eye, you see.

The sun made occasional stabs at breaking through the off-shore cloud banks, angling shafts of light down to the wind-capped and much-ruffled Pacific, the water chasing and luring the sanderlings in turn.

It was the sort of day in San Francisco where I saw a house at 19th and Judah flying a Jolly Roger at half-mast, apparently in mourning for some pirate who has recently walked the plank, and where the Muni driver on the N Judah, while on break before starting his next run, advised Vaughn and me and two British tourists that we couldn't board the N from the otherwise-deserted ramp where we were standing, because that was an accessible-fare-only ramp, but instead we must walk one block west and wait for him there.

It was a day in which we conversed about the various ways in which real life has slapped us in the face of late, sometimes a gentle affectionate pat to make us pay attention, at other times a great big smack. It's been a time of contemplation for us both. Which brings me to the latest novel I've been reading, Nick Hornby's Juliet, Naked.

If you're going to review a book, the world expects you to have something profound to say about it. Well, that's just so expected that I feel obliged to buck the trend, so all I'm going to say specifically about the book is that I am enjoying it quite a bit, which is not unusual because I really like Nick Hornby's perspective on the world. Plus, it is hard to go wrong with a book that has the word 'naked' in the title. Such a great word, you know?

So what I'm going to write about instead is what reading this novel is making me think about myself. That's something I'm much more qualified to write about.

I think what I like best about Hornby's novels is how well he does at creating characters to whom I can relate. In High Fidelity, About A Boy, and in the new novel, the characters seem real, flaws and all, but all coming from the same sort of perspective on the world that I have.

In other words, he writes about pop culture and what people like and how they relate to the things they like. And I like things, so it's like he's writing the novels just for me, which is quite flattering, frankly.

This book in particular is making me look at the development of characters in fiction. I've been thinking for months about fiction writing, because National Novel Writing Month is almost upon us, and because I keep telling my girlfriend that I want to write fiction. Yet I keep not writing fiction, because I don't trust my ideas. And I don't take a fiction writing class, because, well, I'm not sure why.

Here's the thing that I seem to be realizing now, some realization triggered by the book, even though I already knew it intellectually: to make a character seem real and interesting for a story, you have to put that character in an uncomfortable situation, where they might not be completely sympathetic. And I think this might be the root of my writer's block. Most of my characters tend to come from my own experiences, and therefore tend to look a lot like me. I'm naturally disinclined to write about a version of me with certain flaws, especially because it might make me realize that I actually have some flaws in real life. I want to make a completely controlled world that ends well for my avatar, which I am aware would make for a dull and insipid story.

But this can't be a real excuse for not writing if I really want to write. I can find much better excuses from somewhere else.

Anyway, the point is, you have to put a character in crisis. I've always been operating on the theory that you have to develop characters first and then let them play, as it were. The trouble is finding a good crisis for a character that isn't lifted directly out of my own life. And that's where I run into trouble, and where I feel like I am working with a narrow perspective on the writing process. Is it better to define a crisis and then develop characters out of that crisis? Is it better to come up with a great technological or social change and then breed characters from that world?

At this point, I have no idea and just need to brainstorm. But Nick Hornby gives me hope, because the problems and characters he create seem to be characters that I could theoretically know in real life. Plus, the book is just a damned fun and quick read.