My daughter-in-law gave me the present of an online, personal-interview program in which every Monday for one year I get a question about my life. The questions range from those about childhood, to food preferences, to sports, to religious outlook….The list goes on.
These Monday-questions are meant to be a record for posterity, but I’ve discovered that although ostensibly simple, they hide in their midst a fruitful complexity valuable in my work as a writer.
Why?
Because each question is the lynchpin of a moment or episode. Considering the answer to each question, I am tied to the question itself, compelled to search my memory and understanding within its confines, to pay attention to detail, and to search for whatever deeper meaning exists.
Coming up with answers to the questions is like swimming in a pool rather than in the ocean. I can swim lengthwise, crosswise, or diagonally, but whichever way I swim, there is a boundary. If I step from the pool, I’m no longer in it! If I step outside the question, I am no longer responding to it. Thus, each question compels me to focus. And, as I explore the area inside the boundary, the seemingly simplicity of the question becomes paradoxically complex, vast.
Example: Who did you date in high school?
I could, if I wanted, simply list names — but the question is more evocative than that.
My mind looks back at that young high school girl standing in front of the mirror combing her hair, heart pounding with anticipation. She worries about the pimple on her cheek and is more excited about being on a date and going somewhere than about the boy. I suddenly realize that girl never dated a classmate: she has known her classmates since kindergarten; they are too much like brothers to date. So who did I date? And then I wonder, Where did I go on dates? And I see my girl-self hating every moment of a particular amusement-park date; I see her embarrassed by the rides and the screaming. I see her wishing she were home.
Thus, at the same time I’m exploring that teenager’s life, I’m understanding, by answers, aspects of that girl’s character I never thought of before. Why did she hate amusement parks? What else didn’t she like? What struggles was she having? What was the usual date for teenagers in my town? Have I fabricated things about my younger life? Have I even lied about things? Or exaggerated events to make myself look better? Was that girl straightforward? A good student? What sort of date did she prefer? What were the boys like then?
The question snowballs, the pool expands. I swim into water I’ve never considered. My daughter-in-law’s gift leads me to vet not only aspects of my own life, it reminds me, in the long arc of a novel, to explore my characters’ lives from seemingly mundane details. It compels me to consider if I asking the right questions about my fictional characters. Could I dive deeper into their foibles, reflect on the ‘simpler’ facets of their lives ?
Thus, plunging into these Monday-questions becomes not only a gift to my family, it renews my attention to the details of my work, and — fictional or flesh – it is the details that make the design.