The Way I Don't See It

Every writer knows you need conflict to move a story forward. And before you resolve one issue, you best set a few more pots to boiling so the kitchen stays nice and steamy to the end. Oh, and while you're cooking, add several handfuls of irony, toss in at least two sympathetic characters with divergent goals, maybe even zest things up with a twist of plot, and everyone should leave the party satisfied.

Yep, that's the way we write. I'm just not wild about living that way.

Let me say up front that I like my neighbors. We watch out for each other. We smile and wave and collect packages left in the rain by the UPS man. On a nice evening we may even stand out in the street and chat a while. Good folks.

But this past week a little drama unfolded on our quiet street, reminding me that I enjoy tension in story a lot more than in real life.

Compared to drug wars or prostitution rings, our neighborhood issues may seem tame. But the more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that the ingredients are no different. Only the level of spiciness. If I observe closely, I can translate the basic principles into writing effective conflict.

Here's the deal. One neighbor--we'll call her Candy Kane--feeds stray cats. (Chris Fisher, I know you know who it is, and don't you dare say a word.) She has several feeders and water bowls set up in her carport, and she keeps them filled at all times. She sincerely believes her actions are humane, and she's not open to discussion. Candy has been doing this for years. Many years.

Now, if you paid attention in biology class, you won't be surprised when I tell you that the feral cat population around here increases exponentially until someone besides Candy decides to take action.

Enter George and our first pinch of irony. George is one of the greatest respecters of creation I know. He won't even kill snakes unless they're poisonous and threatening humans. And he catches mice, rats, and other vermin in live traps so he can release them out in the woods somewhere. (The careful reader will take note of the live traps.)

George also knows that allowing feral animals to breed unchecked is cruel. They compete for food and territory, contract and spread diseases, destroy property, and prey on or drive away native species. Even rabid animal-rights groups encourage spaying and neutering to prevent overpopulations.

Candy loves the cats and enjoys watching them. We understand that. We enjoy watching the birds that frequent our feeder and bird bath. We don't, however, enjoy finding their remains strewn around the yard. And we definitely don't enjoy the odor of baked cat feces that emanates from our flower beds in the heat of summer and greets any guest who approaches our front door.

So, when the neighborhood reaches critical cat mass, George catches a few in the live trap and removes them. Secretly. By cover of night or tarp. Candy knows about the trap, and she keeps her eyes open. Everyone still smiles and waves.

Which brings us to last Friday. I was exercising when I heard a voice outside my window calling, "Kitty! Here, kitty, kitty!" I looked out and saw Candy moving slowly across my back yard while peering into the shrubbery along the fence. I opened the den door and smiled at her.

"Hey, what's up?" As if I didn't know.

"There's a mama cat with seven babies. She had them under our shop, but as they got bigger I knew she couldn't keep supplying enough milk, so I started feeding the babies. She didn't like that. I saw her with one in her mouth. She's moving them somewhere over here."

So much I could have said. But I didn't. I smiled again. "Well, if she moves them under our shed, you won't be able to get them out."

"I know." She took a drag on her cigarette. "I just hate to think of them going hungry or something getting them." Shrug. "I guess I can't fight Mother Nature."

"Guess not." Still smiling. "Well, I'll talk to you later."

I told George the story. He rolled his eyes. Saturday afternoon he came in from working in the yard. "I found your kittens."

My kittens? Second sprinkling of irony: I have a severe cat allergy. Their dander causes my eyes to water and swell, my skin itches, I sneeze uncontrollably, and I lose my voice. I don't do cats. Or kittens.

I followed him outside. They were under the shed, but several had climbed out and were peeking cautiously over a brick pile. They wouldn't let us come close. Had this been an isolated event, we probably would have cooed over their fluffy cuteness. But this is an epidemic. I could tell George was frustrated, but he said nothing and went back to his yard work.

Sunday morning I opened the back door to leave for church, and a little striped kitten ran right up to my shoe. The rest were milling around our carport. I scooted back inside past George and Jacob and grabbed my camera.

This was the tiniest one. We could tell they were hungry, but they were also skittish and kept running under my car if we approached them. We abandoned the idea of driving my car to church and headed for the one parked by the curb.

When we returned home, Candy came out on her driveway. "Did you see the kittens this morning?" she asked cheerfully.

"Yes, they were out when we left for church," I said. Pause. Smile. "They sure are cute."

"I came over and fed them. I hope that's okay."

Smile fading. What to say? It really wasn't okay, and I could tell by her apologetic tone that she was afraid she may have crossed the line. I didn't dare look at George, but then he spoke up. His attempted laugh was forced and thin. "They are cute, but we're not going to feed them."

"I don't blame you," Candy said. And we parted ways. Awkward.

That afternoon the little girl across the street, Amanda, was playing in her yard when I saw several of the kittens run down our driveway toward her. She spotted them and began coaxing them to come. Soon her mom and grandmother joined her. A couple of the bolder ones crossed almost all the way, then bolted back. Amanda followed them.

Amanda with one of the braver kitties. (No, she's not a neglected child. It was warm enough in East Texas last Sunday for shorts and bare feet. Al Gore would've been proud.)

That evening Amanda and her posse came over and rang our doorbell. Would it be okay with us if they caught the kittens and took them to the shelter where they might stand a chance of being adopted? Oh, yeah. That would be just fine!

About an hour and a can of white chicken meat from my pantry later, all seven were in a cozy box at Amanda's house. Thinking it would be good to send the mama with the babies, George set the live trap out back.

Monday morning mama was crouched inside the trap, so I called Amanda's grandma to come get her. (Remember, I don't do cats. I can't.) Right after I hung up, my phone rang. The caller ID prepared me.

The first words out of Candy's mouth were, "Are you trapping the cats? I didn't think you were upset enough to do that!"

I told her the truth. The kittens were venturing out, crossing the street, this would give them a chance to be adopted and socialized, yada, yada, yada.

She seemed to calm a little. "I promised myself not to get attached to any more animals, but I got attached to those kittens."

"Did you want to adopt all seven?"

"No. I guess not." She paused. "You know, you're pro-life. Well, so am I."

She hung up, but the steam didn't clear from the kitchen for several hours. And while it hovered I pondered her final remark and how very differently we viewed the concept of "pro-life." To her, feeding strays is an act of kindness and their best (or perhaps only) chance at survival. To not do so would be cruel--like forcing a desperate woman into a back-alley abortion. For me, her actions are more akin to providing a place for unmarried teens to have unlimited sex without consequences, even though they have no desire or means to provide for all the inevitable children.

The point is, whatever our subject matter may be, conflict between characters works best if both parties have valid positions. There's not a good guy and a bad guy, but rather one entrenched perspective pitted against another. Then, all we really need are a few plot points:

The giant tire of impending doom . . .

Or a menacing little girl . . .

And you're all set!

Okay, so maybe I just wanted to post more pictures of the kittens. But I'm serious about developing the ability to see how we don't see. If we as writers can't get into opposing characters' heads and truly comprehend both vantage points, then tension will suffer, whether we're dealing with life-and-death scenarios or something as simple as a litter of kittens under a shed.

I love authors who make me understand what drives people to do what I believe I would never do. In the same way, trying to see through Candy's eyes helps me begin to understand people who call themselves "pro-choice." I learn compassion. I become a better writer. 

And a better neighbor.

Comments

[Joyce Moccero]

Nice story, Jeanne. Cat women--they're everywhere. I just read a fantastic book called The Art of Dramatic Writing. The author calls this wonderful type of conflict, The Unity of Opposites, not necessarily one bad, one good, but two opposing forces equally comitted to win. Makes a good story, as you just did. Love you, pal.

[relevantgirl]

omygosh, they're so cuuuuuute!

But I digress. Great point about conflict, Jeanne.

[Michelle Pendergrass]

Your cat story is so much prettier than mine. Phil's grandma is an old Ozark Hills woman, lived on the same 80 acres of land for most of her life. She fed cats. (The discerning reader would noticed the past tense "fed") LOL

Maybe I'll blog.

Have you read Between, Georgia by Joshilyn Jackson? I finished it recently and would have to say it is a brilliant example of this kind of conflict.

[Madison Richards]

Ah, the great Christian novelist's dilemma: being in the world but
not of it, yet trying to write authentic characters while wearing a
straight jacket. Hmmm... Talk about tension.

[Christopher Fisher]

Ha, ha! The moment I read "Let me say up front that I like my neighbors" I knew this would be about cats and, er, Candy Kane.

I remember Jen and I watching all those cats from our second floor apartment window, and me wishing I owned a good pellet rifle. You guys are much, much nicer than me. But I'm sure you knew that. :)

As for the conflict, you're right. Some of the best dramatic conflicts I've seen are the "who's right and who's wrong" type. There's a movie called "The House of Sand and Fog" that does this quite well.

[Michelle Pendergrass]

Chris, my story involves firearms. LOL

[Heather Goodman]

I'm sorry. Were you talking? I was distracted by the oh-so-cute kittens. I hope they find a good home.
Oh, right, conflict. Yes, yes, I agree. Or disagree. Whichever is the right side. :)

[Deborah]

This is fabulous, Jeanne. What a great story. And such an excellent illustration. It goes to show how terribly difficult a job we have in writing Christian fiction to get across the real, deep underlying conflict that seems almost invisible on the surface. So much easier to draw cardboard villains.

Wonderful writing, too. Except I can still smell the baked cat do.

We have someone next door with two big dogs. And someone who used to live on the other side of us who let their dog run out and poop on the edge of their tiny lawn, on the common area of our shared ravine. Then they would let their kids play on that grass in the summer, where they put their ugly plastic slide contraption into the common area. The two big dogs are now enclosed in their own tiny yard, but my balcony view of their lawn is dotted with yellow-urine-fried patches.

Me, I prefer birds.

Deb

[Rachelle G.]

Jeanne, I love the way you tied your story into a writing lesson... but I gotta say, I would've loved the story all by itself. Great story about real life in a neighborhood. Uh, in the world. And wonderful pictures of kittens! (I love kittens, though I am not a cat owner at present.) My husband would be on Chris's side, collecting his pellet gun, while I'd probably be the one feeding the kitties. Neighborhood conflict, all in one house!

[spaghettipie]

Great story. Next time George traps one of those cats you should take it to my parent's house to chase the squirrel my mom is after . . .

[Jeanne Damoff]

Thanks for the comments and compliments, everyone. And thanks for the book and movie recommendations. Those are always welcome.

Yes, Michelle. You should blog your cat story.
They are adorable, aren't they, Mary? I couldn't stop taking pictures.
I know what you mean, Madison. Straight jackets are confining. But they do have a certain fashion flair, don't you think? And I adore my padded room.
Chris, my real motive for writing this was to see if you would comment. ;)
Heather, you make me laugh. 25 pts.
Deb, I prefer character-driven books with at least as much internal as external conflict, and I agree they're harder to write well. Classic authors used an omniscient narrator, but the teacher deducts points from our grade if we do that nowadays.
Thanks, Rachelle! I'm always happy to accept lovely compliments from talented editors. (You could sell the pellet gun on eBay.)

Thanks again, friends. Your words encourage me so much.
Love, Jeanne

[Jeanne Damoff]

Tina, maybe she should just borrow the live trap. George removed a whole family of squirrels from our attic that way.

[Michelle Pendergrass]

Blogging the cat story...

(and I can't get the link to work)

http://zanesmilkmachine.blogspot.com/2007/10/jeanne-posted-her-cat-story-on-masters.html

[Robin (the PENSIEVE one)]

OOooo, Jeanne, you wove story and lesson and KITTENS into a delightful primer in conflict, tension and the art (the benefit?) of resolving both. With diplomacy...discretion...subtlety... Having the eyes to "see" often comes at the cost of conflict, yes? It's through those related experiences that tender our heart even to consider the fullness of someone else's perspective.

Loved these thoughts, the cuteness factor for the pics is off the chart, though ;).

[Angie]

Chris, I spent much of my childhood crying over pellet rifles. Now I own one. And, sadly, I use it. Sometimes the humane thing is not easy.

***Don't send me hate kitty email. The things I shoot are neither fluffy nor cute.