Inside the Mind of a Character

What would a protagonist say in their own words?

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash

Welcome back to another installment of The Cat’s Cradle. Thanks for being here today since we actually have a special guest for today’s showcase. (I know. Who would have thought for a newsletter of all things?)

If you’ve followed me for any span of time, you might have realized by now that I have a lot of ideas churning in the pressure cooker that is my mind. It’s not the best brain—I’ll leave that kind of recognition to minds like Lin-Manuel Miranda and Neil Gaiman—but it gets me through my creative follies. (Most of the time.) Even though I fight with my mind far too often, I still like to pride myself on my breadth of capability when it comes to brainstorming ideas.

Lately I’ve been sitting around with my stewing thoughts and thinking back to old projects I’ve left by the wayside. Sadly, somewhere along the way I missed out on that detrimental memo that says, “Finish things,” to writers of all kinds.

Today’s suspect? The Swan Maidens, a story about seven girls who find themselves tithed for a centuries-old ritual to a psychopath of a young man who’s going to take one of them as his bride. (Can you tell I had been reading too much from Melina Marchetta, Margo Lanagan, and Angela Carter when I came up with this idea?)

As I look back on the story, there were a lot of things that didn’t work—namely my draft’s focus on a romantic undercurrent to the tragedy these girls were undergoing. Trauma was the name of the game for the story, yet I focused a lot on the relationship between the heroine and the antagonist’s servant. It was a mess because I felt as if I weren’t doing justice to the larger themes at hand—namely the ideas of nature vs. nurture, a world hellbent on preserving patriarchal values, and the effects of psychological/emotional abuse towards young people. It was heavy, perhaps too heavy for a sheltered twenty-something (at the time) to tackle.

But all these years have passed and I still think back fondly on what I wrote of The Swan Maidens before I shelved the idea.

After all, I wouldn’t have met my heroine, Lark, who remains one of my most strong-willed creations to date. (Unfortunately, I didn’t know

Lark Morrigan

at the time to write something quippy right now about life inspiring art.)

And that’s where the idea behind today’s piece comes into play: I thought, “Why not give this heroine back her voice for a little bit?” It’s been so long since I’ve written through Lark’s POV that I’m no doubt a bit rusty, but I wondered if perhaps it might be a good thing to introduce her in a format like this. Who can say?

Let’s sit with Lark for a little bit, okay?

“Who are you?”

I’m sitting in the same chair I’ve sat upon since my early days when Grandfather would tell me stories of the Old World. The wood is worn and smooth from all those times I would sit enraptured by the pictures he painted in my mind. Mother would be humming in the little meal nook with Grandmother helping her rinse out the dishes with the rainwater we’d collected from the buckets outside our little hovel. They allowed me my play at night as long as I helped with the chores during the day like collecting the eggs and getting rid of the weeds in our little plot of a garden.

But nighttime? It was for stories—what I craved most, what I dreamt about when slumber overcame me.

Grandfather is alive with movement tonight, his hand gestures creating a play of shadows against the wall. In my mind’s eye, I can picture what he’s hoping to convey: a dragon, full of fiery breath, ready to engulf a whole village before the hero stands tall with a sword rife with magic. Only in these quiet moments do I not fear the implication of magic. In Grandfather’s stories, magic is always a force for good. It’s not a prelude to nightmares.

In Grandfather’s stories, the Scion and his son do not exist. There is no such thing as the Tithe. There is no reason for mothers and fathers to fear the births of baby girls. There is no foreboding when a bad storm comes through because there’s not someone controlling the winds and the rains and the dread of it all.

In those stories, I can imagine there’s a kinder world than the one I’ve always known.

“Where do you live?”

Squall’s Hollow might have been named something pleasant if not for the storms. Long ago, wind and rain might have foretold a good crop season for farmers, but in the Hollow we fear the presence of storms. The sun rarely peeks out from behind the clouds, and the off-white murkiness of the sky always makes me think of that figure we all know but have never seen.

The Stormbringer.

I don’t know his real name, but his magic keeps a chokehold over the Hollow and everything else.

One wrong move from someone in the Hollow, and we’ll see our basin of a home flooded with no remorse.

It wasn’t always like this.

Long ago, magic was a beautiful thing.

But now it’s a cursed and twisted thing.

The Scion and his ancestors made it that way.

“What’s your greatest fear?”

My friend Marta is expecting a child. Mother has talked with her about the birthing so that she’s ready when the baby arrives. Normally, I would have sat beside Mother to learn more of the ways of midwifery, but I said I didn’t feel comfortable. Mother didn’t press me.

Marta is barely eighteen summers old, yet she’s already going to have a baby.

We haven’t dared speak of what might happen if it’s a girl. I’m afraid Marta will burst into tears and fall into an inconsolable state.

Just last summer, we had been sitting on the cliffside together as we laughed over the silly things girls in the Hollow said to catch the attention of boys. But I didn’t realize from the blush in Marta’s cheeks that she had already had her eye on one particular boy. I should have sensed it, but maybe I didn’t because I still wanted to keep hold of our childish ways.

Motherhood seemed a far-off fancy—if it was even a fancy at all.

I had seen the way new mothers’ eyes darkened when they found out their newborn was a girl. Some cried soundlessly, their spouses barely able to keep the emotions at bay themselves. Others yelled and raged how cruel and unfair the world was. Mother always did her best to calm them down.

Most times, I couldn’t bear it myself and had to leave the room.

Marta’s asked me if I’ll be there when her birthing comes. I haven’t been able to answer her. The Tithe will be coming soon, so I don’t even know if I’ll be here in the Hollow or up in the Bastion as a captive.

But that’s all just an excuse.

How would I be able to face my friend and tell her that she has had a girl?

What face would she make? Would she despair right away, or would she hold back the tears?

How could I hold out her baby to her with the knowledge that the little girl may grow up to become just another piece of the Tithe?

Sometimes I can’t sleep for thinking of every what-if.

But that’s my world.

Will it ever change in my lifetime?

Or will there just be more heartache to bear?

Well?

Given this particular thought experiment, I’m curious if this kind of feature would interest any of you readers out there as a recurring fragment of The Cat’s Cradle. There will still be essays and short fiction pieces, but I’d like to spotlight some older ideas too that may need revisiting.

What do you say? Yay or nay? If you feel inclined, let me know down in the comments.

But thank you as always for reading another installment of The Cat’s Cradle. Hopefuly there will be plenty more stories and anecdotes to share as we go forward along this journey together.

I can’t promise exquisite writing or immersive storytelling, but I can tell you that it will be an adventure at the very least.

Photo by Landon Parenteau on Unsplash

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