Be Careful: You May Sink into my Novel

When I think about how many interesting people inhabit our planet, it doesn't surprise me that characters sell, always will. Be it American Idol, The Twilight Series, or Harry Potter; viewers and readers have proven that they want people. And they want them in color, not your standard beige.

As a writer, I am thankful for people, for the abundance of them. They're at the beach, the park, the playing field, and, during a snowy winter in New England, they're on The Chairlift.

My family has been snowboarding for the last few months. Well, to cut to the chase, my son and husband have been, literally,'cutting to the chase' with exquisite agility while I--ever the learner, ever the perfectionist--have been honing my skill on the bunny slope.

I harbor no resentment for my delay in mastering the famous 's' turn, the snowboarding staple. I'm quite proud that I can form the letter J in the snow. It's a great old letter, a lovely letter, a biblical letter, and let's face it (since I'm the kind of girl who tells it like it is) what I truly love about the sport has nothing to do with riding down the mountain. It has everything to do with going up it. On the chairlift. Because people are interesting.

If you haven't had the pleasure of riding uphill on a chairlift, let me enlighten you. First, there is the sheer precision of the whole process, the 'skating' forward to the sign that says 'load here' while a monsoon of people watch you, desperate to be assured that you will hop on properly so that they, next in line, will get a fair turn.

Ashamedly, I must admit, I have not always come through for these people. There was one instance in which I became so entranced by the rhythm of the chairlift - by its sheer robotics to contine moving, to wait for no one, with that metallic arm that pivots at a spectacular right angle - that I missed my cue to hop on.

An empty chair sailed up and onward as a dismayed employee, The Lift Operator, educated me. "As soon as you see the sign for..." Blah, blah, blah, was all I heard, a Charlie Brown phonecall. Yeah, I get it mister, now let me get on the next chair and right my wrongs already.

He was a character alright, that Lift Operator. Along with a snake-line of folk, I half-listened to him before skating forward with impressive speed. Load Here. I read the sign twice, just to be sure I'd get it right this time. Perfect. I judged the transition perfectly and settled back into the chair with a new pair of people.

They were, I learned, a Chemistry Professor and His Daughter. Despite his obvious intelligence, The Chemist offered a show of humility when I joked that he must be 'one of those really smart people'. Sniggering at the compliment; he shared that his wife would say otherwise.

I can picture him clearly now, the prominent square jaw, the lean build. I can picture him as though I'm seated beside him. Let's zoom in closer, to present tense, so that you, too, can see him.


The Chemist has a wife, I learn. This makes me happy. There is a quiet intelligence about him and I want him to be happily married. I make a mental note to be sure that he will be happily married in an upcoming chapter.

As we continue to glide uphill, sharing pieces of who we are, pieces that - in the confines of our short rendevous - can only be defined by what we do, I manage to forge a slick overlap with The Chemist.

"I used to love balancing equations," I say, and then, in a bold attempt to relate further, add, "it was always exciting to wonder whether or not everything will cancel out."

The Chemist has a sense of humor. He chuckles politely then surprises me with praise. "Most people don't like that, or get that," he says. "I think it depends on who you have for a teacher."

We glide on and, inevitably, he asks what I do. Feeling inadequate to the achieve of The Chemist (I also learned that he teaches at Boston College), I share my profession.

"I'm a writer."

"Really?" he asks, intrigued, perhaps perplexed.

Unnecessarily, I feel the need to bolster who I am. "I also have two teaching degrees."

The onset of information is enough to keep The Chemist hooked and we chat like old friends for the remainder of the ride. I forewarn him that I sometimes fall getting off the lift and apologize in advance if I bump into his daughter. He reassures me that 'children bend' and the two of us make a remarkably clean separation at the mountain's top. We choose different paths, The Chemist and I, and this is by default of a simple fact: I lack control over my board and it leads me away from him. Nevertheless, we wish each other luck on the way down.

I concentrate on my heel-side turn, on drawing the letter J in the snow, but a part of me is still drafting The Chemist. He needs a conflict and I rake through options in my mind, finally settling on the rebellious student theme. What would it take to push The Chemist's buttons too far? And how much of this does the reader need to see? Perhaps his calm front is a mask to the troubles boiling inside of him.

In the pages of my mind, I flip through plots. The thought of The Chemist, soft-spoken, genuinely nice, makes me feel for him and I shudder to the thought of the misguided teen whom will disrespect him. The teen, though, is pardoned in my mind by a careful reprieve that I create. The Chemist will be paid well for his aggravations, much more than his author, his puppeteer.

I continue to think and turn and fall, a pattern I'm familiar with, even comfortable with, before heading to the mountain's bottom. In the distance, a mob of skiiers have entered my view. I decide not to practice my toe-side turns because it requires energy that I suddenly don't have - the fall forward, the frustration, the reminder of the massive amount of practice that I still need - all are not worth it.

Instead, I play it safe and plow down on a diagonal. At the flat section, I set one foot free, scan the line, and skate back in - to the 'Singles' section. Beside me, a threesome of teens stand tall and messy. Their 'whatever' attitudes assert themselves in their first-time-ever snowboarding confessions, missing helmets, and raucous laughter. They are stereotypical characters, these teens.

I shimmy on ahead, notice the well-dressed middle aged woman with the pink headband. She knows what she's doing, this lady, and she huffs and sighs to those who don't. I begin to wonder what she is doing at the bunny slope. More than that, I hope to ride up with her.

My mind has already begun to create her story.

She does not greet me on the way up. Bad decision.