I became immediately and sputteringly angry (figuratively…I don’t really sputter) at something fellow Backword Books member Christopher Meeks – very innocently – wrote to me this morning in an email. (He has given his permission to quote from the message.)

One thing I’m curious about HOMEFRONT is the challenge you had in conceiving it and structuring it. When I first heard what your story was, I thought, “Yes, but the drama of the story isn’t in with the girlfriend waiting–it’s with the guy off to war.” Nonetheless, clearly you found the action in waiting and made it compelling, based on the reviews. I’d love a blog in how you create your structure in stories. I’d also like to hear how you get to “truth.”

[Note: Chris hasn't read Homefront, yet. And a later email he sent should explain a little more about what he means: I'm guessing you knew your protagonist, while waiting, could not be passive. I'm curious what actions and choices you gave her. This note was added after comments ending at Jim Thomsen - I'm afraid I might have given a poor impression of Chris, whose question was a valid one, but which - even so - caused an immediate reaction in me for the reason explained below.]

Because I’ve long been frustrated by how easy it is (or seems to be) to cast off the at-home experience as one that’s comparatively unimportant and relatively insignificant, to read evidence that this perspective persists, that – in large part – people continue to believe the only war stories are the ones we already see (and have been seeing for years) in movies, novels, and on TV that depict the story of the soldier, made me forget, for a moment, that this person is a fellow member of Backword Books. That nothing was meant by it. That it was just one writer asking another writer a question. All I could see was, “…but the drama of the story isn’t in the girlfriend waiting at home…”

Which supposes there’s only so much room for drama in a time of war, or only one compelling or relevant story to tell.

Like many, though, Chris has never been the “girlfriend waiting at home” for the person he loves to survive mortar attacks, surface to air missiles, RPGs, bullets zinging past the helmet on the head he’s kissed, or any of the other creative ways people can die in a war zone.  (I say this with a wry smile. I’m not angry. I promise. I am, instead, light-heartedly seething and indignant.)

Once my knee stopped jerking, I read the paragraph again and decided the question is probably one many share. And I’m intrigued by the idea of answering Chris’s other question about getting to the “truth.”

I’m also interested to know how short I can keep this. I realized after reading my interview in the Huffington Post yesterday that I can be quite verbose when answering questions. Therefore, this entry will be an exercise in brevity.

Question 1 : Clearly you found the action in waiting…I’d love a blog about how you create your structure in stories.

I’m not sure how to answer this, actually.

First I should say I don’t know that I found the “action” in waiting, and that while I’m sure Chris probably didn’t mean “action” the way we think of it when we rent an “action” movie, I want to clarify that “action” probably means “conflict.”

How I found it was, I guess, the same way we’ve all seen in done books and movies that typically deal with a diseased or missing person: imagining how the world is tainted by emotional trauma.

When a person goes missing, we see their story, their trial, on TV and in books, sure. But we also often see the other stories, the ones focusing on the hell experienced by those who are waiting to find out whether their missing family member is alive or dead.

It’s easier for people to imagine the at-home drama in a kidnapping situation than in a war situation, for some reason. Maybe because we’ve seen plenty of it on TV already. But in both cases, people safe at home are left in a state of torturous limbo while they wait to learn the fate of the person they love.

That’s where the “action” is in Homefront. It’s an internal conflict, with war as the antagonist. The action, then, is in every reaction.

On structure:

Homefront, like much of what I write, begins with – and centers around – the emotional responses the character has to her surroundings or the thing currently affecting her (a relationship, an event, another person). The way a person feels affects her perception of the world around her, and in Homefront, after Jake leaves for Iraq, the whole world as Mia sees it changes. Food tastes different. Other people’s laughter sounds different. The news becomes a monster. Etc.

I don’t know that I intentionally create structure in a story or novel, though. That is, it’s not a conscious construction. What I do is try to envision how various events or conversations will be handled by someone in a particular frame of mind, and then create a series of events or conversations natural to the story. (Most of my stories, however, involve less imagining a frame of mind and more recalling that frame of mind. The stories are fiction, but the heart of each of them is invariably based on an emotion or an emotional experience I’ve had at one time or another.)

Question 2: I’d also like to hear how you get to “truth.”

This one is easier.

Answer: Utter honesty. If ever I feel the temptation to shrink back from something, that’s when I know that’s what has to be fleshed out.

In Homefront, people say things that, in real life, we don’t want to hear. They do things we know people do, but that we’d rather not think about. There’s happy truth in life, sure, but all of us already know what that is  – there’s no reason to hide it, and really no reason to write about it (unless it’s preceded by sadness/anger/hurt or something else heartbreaking).

The more interesting truth is the truth we’re usually trying our hardest to hide.Writing about that kind of truth is like telling a big secret you promised never to reveal.

And truth doesn’t always come in dialogue. It’s revealed in behavior, glances, movement, lack of movement, action, lack of action, breathing, blinking, licking of lips, flinging of hair. In Homefront, Mia’s behavior toward Jake isn’t pretty, but it’s real. Denise’s relationship with William became a sort of controversy prior to a book club radio show I was a guest on, but only because people didn’t want to accept that reality, didn’t like the truth as it was presented. There is a way people would prefer certain truths be dealt with, and that usually involves prettying up the ends. I didn’t do that in Homefront. (I guess I don’t like to do that in anything I write.)

It’s the many ways truth comes out that fascinates me most about writing, and that proved the most exhilarating exercise when writing Homefront, which offers a healthy dose of such truth.

(For a recent review of Homefront – published in the Huffington Post and touching on a few of those truthy areas – click here.)

[How'd I do with the brevity thing?]