This morning, while
steaming milk for coffee, I removed the sort of skin that formed on the surface
before using a whipper to make a homemade variation of latte. The moment I did
that, the memory of an old relative, long gone, popped into my mind.
I noted an oddity
about myself that had been there for years, but I never filed before. I steam milk
every morning, and remove this layer, Lactoderm, from its top
every time. The memory of this relative comes before me every time I do this,
but rarely at other times.
For the first
time, I’m not only noting this, but also wondering why it is so. There is no
connection between the surface of steamed milk and this person. Or is there? If
there is, my conscious mind can’t access it.
In the midst of
revising on my next novel, it occurs to me that such little details pointing to
subconscious patterns are essential to writing rich characters. In fiction, we
have to make these patterns rise to the surface. The reader will be unsatisfied
if we just note them and leave them there without explanation.
I may have to use
my storytelling imagination to build the tiny bridge real life doesn’t.
Fiction is so much
tidier than life. In fact, the act of writing is itself an effort to tie up
loose ends.
