I wrote for an hour and half this morning, and solved a big problem with a character by borrowing a distinct physical trait from a friend of mine. (I don't want to say what the trait is yet, but I will, soon, because I think it's interesting how this trait solves this problem.) I felt guilt doing this so consciously. It's one thing to borrow an emotion, or a belief from someone, but an actual physical trait? It feels a little bit like stealing, and I want to check with my friend before I proceed with my plan. If she says that it makes her uncomfortable -- and she might -- then I won't use it.
Oddly enough -- or maybe it's not odd, maybe it's just the way the world works -- I received a Facebook message today from the mother of a young woman whose artwork I borrowed for use in The Threadbare Heart. This young woman -- Erica -- is a ceramic artist. She attended the same school my children did, although they weren't close friends.
At one of the school art shows, Erica displayed a series of vessels that were so shockingly beautiful, I couldn't get them out of my head. They were little pots made to look like little people by the addition of arms, feet, a nose, an ear. They're hard to explain -- because they weren't people, they were pots -- but they were amazing. I wrote a ceramic artist into my novel, and used one of the pots in a key scene. I was slightly embarrassed about this -- embarrassed that I hadn't imagined the pots out of thin air, and wondering if there was something wrong in borrowing the idea of these pots -- but I assuaged my discomfort by acknowledging Erica and her inspiration in the front of the book.
The Facebook message I just received was from Erica's mother, saying how much she'd enjoyed The Threadbare Heart , telling me how happy Erica was at college, and thanking me for the mention of Erica in the book. This message made me really happy. It was like an absolution -- and a sign that perhaps what I wrote today was meant to be.