WHEN THEY WERE HUMAN

This post originally appeared on Julie N. Ford's blog for Cordelia's Corner.

            Mel and I were recently going through old drafts of manuscripts she’s currently working on, namely a romantic vampire comedy (RVC) and a superhero story.  What’s in common with these two?  They’ve got (mostly) non-human characters, whether vampire, fire demon, or someone who might have some super powers because of exposure to alien rocks, genetically altered mosquitoes, or because he inherited them. 

            However, these stories actually got their start by the characters being human.  Emma, the heroine for the RVC, started out as a legal secretary in love with her boss’ best friend for a short story contest (that Mel obviously did not win).  By the third draft, she was an overworked business consultant who was in love with her best friend’s brother.  Her flighty best friend was named Sam.  More about her a little later on.

            Even though Mel enjoyed writing the now-unfinished draft, it didn’t really work.  Then there was a submissions call for a supernatural creatures anthology for an online publisher.  Mel dusted off the old manuscript, and said, “Why couldn’t Emma be a vampire?” and “She should be the black sheep of the family, have trouble with really, really bad dates, and not be able to keep a job.  I could have fun with this.”  I asked her if she was seriously considering chick lit, considering it was at the tail-end of its popularity, and for goodness’ sake, the vampire market was saturated.  She shrugged.  “It’s a story.  People can think it’s chick lit if they want to.  I have nothing to lose.”  Against my better judgment, that’s what she did.

            It should be noted that Mel found out about the anthology about two weeks before submissions were due.  (I am going with her figure, even though remember it being almost a month, and I am rarely wrong.  Mel said her timeline made the story more dramatic, but whatever.)  She rose to the occasion, forgot to eat, ate unhealthy food when she did; avoided housework, but scrubbed like mad when she was trying to figure out why a character was acting the way he was; the result was a finished manuscript.  As Julie can attest, Mel takes forever to write, so this was a miraculous feat.  I attempted to help her with the synopsis, which neither of us had ever done, but at 2:30 in the morning, we were just hoping it made sense.  Mel and I were incredibly shaky from caffeine, lack of sleep, and sheer nerves.  At the time, she was satisfied with that hot mess.  I wasn’t, but did she listen to me?  Of course not.  It wasn’t ready, and I did enough cringing for both of us.  The online publisher sent her a very polite “no thanks”, and while Mel was disappointed, she knew better than to get her hopes up.  I had been trying to make her see a realistic picture.  Mel claims I’m a pessimist—I just don’t want to see her get hurt.  Since then, she’s been rewriting it, stopping, and rewriting some more.

            But let’s see what happened to Sam.  Mel grew up collecting comic books, and imagining herself as Diana Prince and Wonder Woman.  She watched the Superfriends religiously on Saturday mornings, along with every other super hero cartoon or live-action show and movie that appeared.  She even made up her own superheroes and sidekicks and gave them adventures that worked around their college classes.  Needless to say, they didn’t get much time in the spandex and glossy boots.  Plus, the hero was majoring in biochemistry, and after little research (she was only 12 with no internet—it was the 80’s, after all), she decided she was in over her head.  Three years later, she met a woman who did artwork for an underground comic book starring a gay superhero and they had a nice long discussion during a plane ride.  Mel was impressed, but filed it away.

            Skip forward about two decades.  She started to play with the idea of what it would really be like to be a superhero’s girlfriend, or even better, his ex.  Sam, who would always be human, started hanging out with a bunch of superheroes.  She was no longer flighty, but instead but was a bit jaded, and conversely wanted that superhero idealism.  What if her boyfriend came from a superhero lineage?  Would his family approve?  What if their public personas were very different from her experiences with them? After all, Miss Ultimate might be beloved by the world, but still treat Sam like she was going to obliterate her during a family dinner.

            Mel has always maintained that regardless if they were supernatural or just super, these characters are people, with all the things that would normally make them human:  they love, they hate, they worry about pleasing families, etc.  In other words, they live.  These characters rattle around in her head.  I mean, they never seem to shut up.  It’s really, really annoying.  The woman only has so much room in that brain of hers.

            It’s always interesting to see how characters develop, the journey from where they began to where they end up.  Sometimes they are pretty much the same as when they started.  Sometimes they are complete opposites:  The villain after numerous drafts and tangents ends up as the hero.  An adult novel might turn into junior fiction.  Time travels end up as real world vs. fantasy world.  Kill off a beloved character?  He or she might be saved in a later draft.  Characters’ names can change, as you try to find just the right fit.  Titles are in flux.  Outlines and character synopses are laughed at down the road.  Filing cabinets and thumb drives are crammed full with edited manuscripts that document these changes that take place over weeks, months, and sometimes years.

            I’ve noticed that writers are a curious bunch.  They try to see why people act the way they do; wonder about strangers’ stories.  Most importantly, they ask that magical phrase that gives birth to fiction:  “What if?”  In that moment, anything is possible.  After all, writers are first and foremost dreamers.  And as we all know, sometimes dreams change.

            A postscript of sort about my name, since this whole essay has been about change:  I was named for Cordelia because Anne Shirley loved it, and my last name is derived from Mel’s self-appointed nickname, The Black Humor Fairy.  I was born Cordelia Black-Faire as a way for Mel to cope with writing stresses.  I later became Lucinda Blackfaire, and then finally, I was Cordelia Blackfaire again.  I have warned Mel to leave me well enough alone because I’ve grown comfortable with my name.  I may have also mentioned that I know where she lives, and she has to sleep sometime.

            Until next time,

            Cordelia