Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Still Hot
On the first day of class in my Young Adult Fiction course, I read "Where the Wild Things Are" to my students. I do this because it introduces many of the themes we will encounter throughout the semester and also because I love to have the excuse to read the book aloud. But the book brings into the classroom much more than the practical and the pleasurable. When I read those words and turn those pages, a magic is released and reminds all of us, if any of us had forgotten, that literature written for young people plucks at our souls and makes them sing.
Where the Wild Things Are is a wonderful place in the truest sense of "wonderful," but I have always found the most magical part of the book to be the last line. Max sails back home, in and out of weeks, to find his supper waiting for him: "and it was still hot."
My students and I talk about why this is such a perfect ending to the story, and I often make the argument that it all hinges on the word "hot." If the food was warm, we would know that Max's mother had set the dish in his room but then had wandered away, turing her attention to something else. Because the supper is "still hot," we can be sure, as can Max, that his mother has taken special care with his supper. She knows what he needs and when he needs it. She doesn't need to be in his room, or in the final illustration, because Max knows she is there for him. The hot food makes her love plain.
Lots of children's books, for young readers and older ones, are about journeys away from home, and these are fascinating and wonderful. But sometimes the journeys that move us most are the returns. When Wendy flies back into the nursery, when Alice runs inside for tea, when the Pevensie children tumble out of the wardrobe, when Harry goes to bed in his four-poster, readers are reminded that part of the magic of going away is the magic of coming back. Sendak captured this magic with beautiful simplicity.
Maurice Sendak has gone away, and he sails off "in and out of weeks," my heart breaks because I know he won't come back. But I take comfort, as will countless readers for years to come, from the simple fact that his words will never leave us, and we can always come back to find them waiting for us. Still and always hot.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
A 200th Birthday
Charles Dickens was born two hundred years ago today on February 7, 1812. Few literary figures have achieved such lasting renown as Dickens, a writer at once widely respected and popular both in his own time and now. Even children of the twenty-first century who may never have read a word of Dickens are familiar with Scrooge and Tiny Tim. Most people recognize, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" and "Please, sir, may I have some more?" Dickens left a mark not only on English literature but also on Western consciousness.
So, I wonder in this vaguely public forum, what sort of mark did he leave on me? As an academic who specializes in Victorian literature, I am not a typical reader of Dickens. I have read many of his novels (though fewer than I'd like to admit), taken and taught graduate seminars on his works, and published a chapter on his use of archaeological imagery in my monograph, Excavating Victorians. However, I am writing, as I try to do in "The Wardrobe Door," as an author of children's fiction, so I ask again, what sort of mark has my reading of Dickens left on my writing?
I think the answer has to do with people and places. I suspect Dickens' impact on me is greater even than I might realize, but I can acknowledge with certainty an influence on the way I craft characters and their homes.
A striking physical trait can define a character quickly and effectively. This can be some aspect of the character's appearance or a habit of movement or a speech pattern. Flora from Little Dorrit is a good example. She speaks in unending sentences that strain syntax, delightful to read aloud. She has other qualities, certainly, but this is the one that defines her. I have a character in the book I'm writing now whose speech pattern is nearly the opposite of Flora's: he speaks in clipped phrases. When he reappears at a key moment, my characters and my readers recognize him immediately because of his distinctive way of speaking.
The spaces people inhabit tell us a tremendous amount about them and their world. So much attention is given to Dickens' people that we often forget to attend to his places, which are just as highly wrought. Take Coketown, the fictionalized version of Manchester where Hard Times takes place. In a chapter title "The Key Note," Dickens describes Coketown as follows:
It was a town of red brick, or of brick that would have been red if the smoke and ashes had allowed it; but as matters stood, it was a town of unnatural red and black like the painted face of a savage. It was a town of machinery and tall chimneys, out of which interminable serpents of smoke trailed themselves for ever and ever, and never got uncoiled. It had a black canal in it, and a river that ran purple with ill-smelling dye, and vast piles of building full of windows where there was a rattling and a trembling all day long, and where the piston of the steam-engine worked monotonously up and down, like the head of an elephant in a state of melancholy madness. It contained several large streets all very like one another, and many small streets still more like one another, inhabited by people equally like one another, who all went in and out at the same hours, with the same sound upon the same pavements, to do the same work, and to whom every day was the same as yesterday and to-morrow, and every year the counterpart of the last and the next.
Those mad, melancholy elephants amaze me every time I read this passage. What genius to offer such an unsettling, alien image of an industrial town! I don't linger over whole towns in my writing, or I haven't yet, but I do give careful attention to my characters' most intimate spaces: the pile of books on Micah's bed is probably the most striking example. In fact, because my characters have to draw places, details of space are important for them to notice and make use of. In other words, such images are not only thematic or atmospheric but essential to my plots.
Thank you, Charles Dickens, for Miss Havisham, the Ghost of Christmas Past, the megalosaurus waddling up Holborn Hill, Bill Sykes' dog, Bleak House, and those melancholy elephants. I join the many who write in your wake.
So, I wonder in this vaguely public forum, what sort of mark did he leave on me? As an academic who specializes in Victorian literature, I am not a typical reader of Dickens. I have read many of his novels (though fewer than I'd like to admit), taken and taught graduate seminars on his works, and published a chapter on his use of archaeological imagery in my monograph, Excavating Victorians. However, I am writing, as I try to do in "The Wardrobe Door," as an author of children's fiction, so I ask again, what sort of mark has my reading of Dickens left on my writing?
I think the answer has to do with people and places. I suspect Dickens' impact on me is greater even than I might realize, but I can acknowledge with certainty an influence on the way I craft characters and their homes.
A striking physical trait can define a character quickly and effectively. This can be some aspect of the character's appearance or a habit of movement or a speech pattern. Flora from Little Dorrit is a good example. She speaks in unending sentences that strain syntax, delightful to read aloud. She has other qualities, certainly, but this is the one that defines her. I have a character in the book I'm writing now whose speech pattern is nearly the opposite of Flora's: he speaks in clipped phrases. When he reappears at a key moment, my characters and my readers recognize him immediately because of his distinctive way of speaking.
The spaces people inhabit tell us a tremendous amount about them and their world. So much attention is given to Dickens' people that we often forget to attend to his places, which are just as highly wrought. Take Coketown, the fictionalized version of Manchester where Hard Times takes place. In a chapter title "The Key Note," Dickens describes Coketown as follows:
It was a town of red brick, or of brick that would have been red if the smoke and ashes had allowed it; but as matters stood, it was a town of unnatural red and black like the painted face of a savage. It was a town of machinery and tall chimneys, out of which interminable serpents of smoke trailed themselves for ever and ever, and never got uncoiled. It had a black canal in it, and a river that ran purple with ill-smelling dye, and vast piles of building full of windows where there was a rattling and a trembling all day long, and where the piston of the steam-engine worked monotonously up and down, like the head of an elephant in a state of melancholy madness. It contained several large streets all very like one another, and many small streets still more like one another, inhabited by people equally like one another, who all went in and out at the same hours, with the same sound upon the same pavements, to do the same work, and to whom every day was the same as yesterday and to-morrow, and every year the counterpart of the last and the next.
Those mad, melancholy elephants amaze me every time I read this passage. What genius to offer such an unsettling, alien image of an industrial town! I don't linger over whole towns in my writing, or I haven't yet, but I do give careful attention to my characters' most intimate spaces: the pile of books on Micah's bed is probably the most striking example. In fact, because my characters have to draw places, details of space are important for them to notice and make use of. In other words, such images are not only thematic or atmospheric but essential to my plots.
Thank you, Charles Dickens, for Miss Havisham, the Ghost of Christmas Past, the megalosaurus waddling up Holborn Hill, Bill Sykes' dog, Bleak House, and those melancholy elephants. I join the many who write in your wake.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
We Are What We Read
When I was in my mid-20s, I had a nasty case of the flu and was laid up for about two weeks. I felt pretty awful, so I curled up in comfy pjs, under comfy blankets, and surrounded myself with comfy books.
I had always been a big reader and prided myself on being able to read hard books. In fact, I was in graduate school pursuing a PhD in English, which means I spent my time reading lots of complex and brilliant literature. While this was deeply rewarding, the books I spent most of my time with were not comfy. So, for the first time since being a child, I went back to the book I had loved most when I was young: Madeleine L’Engle’s A Ring of Endless Light.
My copy of this book was a battered paperback, a library discard. It had been loved into fragility by many readers before me, and in my hands, the cover fell off, and the corners of the pages grew soft. Like a security blanket or a stuffed animal, the book offered comfort simply with its presence. The feel of it, even the smell of it transported me into a sort of cocoon, a strengthening safe space where I could recover from the flu but also grow into a fuller understanding of who I am.
Re-reading the book revealed a sort of archaeology of myself. I found the origins of beliefs, attitudes, even vocabulary. From my use of the phrase “hair-colored hair” to an abiding love for Dylan Thomas’s poem “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” to a firm belief that when someone needs you, you come, who I am was shaped by A Ring of Endless Light. Going back to this childhood favorite in my early adulthood got me through the flu, but much more importantly, it carried me into a richer knowledge of myself.
We are what we read. Some books matter much more than others. As their pages soften, we grow stronger. We grow into ourselves.
Which book made you who you are?
I had always been a big reader and prided myself on being able to read hard books. In fact, I was in graduate school pursuing a PhD in English, which means I spent my time reading lots of complex and brilliant literature. While this was deeply rewarding, the books I spent most of my time with were not comfy. So, for the first time since being a child, I went back to the book I had loved most when I was young: Madeleine L’Engle’s A Ring of Endless Light.
My copy of this book was a battered paperback, a library discard. It had been loved into fragility by many readers before me, and in my hands, the cover fell off, and the corners of the pages grew soft. Like a security blanket or a stuffed animal, the book offered comfort simply with its presence. The feel of it, even the smell of it transported me into a sort of cocoon, a strengthening safe space where I could recover from the flu but also grow into a fuller understanding of who I am.
Re-reading the book revealed a sort of archaeology of myself. I found the origins of beliefs, attitudes, even vocabulary. From my use of the phrase “hair-colored hair” to an abiding love for Dylan Thomas’s poem “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” to a firm belief that when someone needs you, you come, who I am was shaped by A Ring of Endless Light. Going back to this childhood favorite in my early adulthood got me through the flu, but much more importantly, it carried me into a richer knowledge of myself.
We are what we read. Some books matter much more than others. As their pages soften, we grow stronger. We grow into ourselves.
Which book made you who you are?
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
More Biography Woes
With some help from my editor father, I have a good draft of my bio for the Catalan edition of my book. If anyone can weigh in, I would be very grateful for feedback. Remember that the audience is Catalan-speaking and, obviously, is children.
Virginia Zimmerman is an American who loves Catalunya. She married into a Catalan family and spends as much time as possible in and around Barcelona. Her favorite place in the whole world is Sa Tuna on the Costa Brava. She currently lives in Lewisburg, a small town in Pennsylvania.
She and her husband have three children, who got to attend a Catalan school in Barcelona for several months, an experience that the whole family found wonderfully enriching. They are the only family in Lewisburg who speak any Catalan, and they like to use it as a secret language whenever they need one.
Virginia has been fascinated by literature since she began reading, and now she both writes it and teaches it at the university level. She believes that reading is the best way to become a writer — or, for that matter, a person.
Virginia Zimmerman is an American who loves Catalunya. She married into a Catalan family and spends as much time as possible in and around Barcelona. Her favorite place in the whole world is Sa Tuna on the Costa Brava. She currently lives in Lewisburg, a small town in Pennsylvania.
She and her husband have three children, who got to attend a Catalan school in Barcelona for several months, an experience that the whole family found wonderfully enriching. They are the only family in Lewisburg who speak any Catalan, and they like to use it as a secret language whenever they need one.
Virginia has been fascinated by literature since she began reading, and now she both writes it and teaches it at the university level. She believes that reading is the best way to become a writer — or, for that matter, a person.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Author Biographies
I've been asked to write my biography for the book jacket of the Catalan edition of my novel, A Sketch in Time. This has prompted me to think about what I want out of the biographies of authors when I read their books, and the truth is that I don't read the bios to learn more about the authors. I usually read them because I've come to the end of the story, and I want more. I'm so desperate for more that I read every printed word in the book, including the copyright page and the tiny print that identifies the font in which the text is printed. The most satisfying bios are the ones that feel like they add to the story in some way.
Perhaps the bio offers a glimpse of the creative mind that generated the book, or perhaps it reveals that the author, in some way, really inhabits the book's secondary world. Maybe it makes me believe in the story in a new way. Maybe it's just a few more words written in a voice that's become familiar.
What do you like to see in an author bio?
Perhaps the bio offers a glimpse of the creative mind that generated the book, or perhaps it reveals that the author, in some way, really inhabits the book's secondary world. Maybe it makes me believe in the story in a new way. Maybe it's just a few more words written in a voice that's become familiar.
What do you like to see in an author bio?
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Micah's Bookshelf
A couple of weeks ago I wrote about carrying my main character, Micah, around with me. I haven't been doing as much of this as I would like partly because Micah is 11 and a lot of my life wouldn't interest him at all: "What would Micah think of my department meeting?" is not a terribly interesting question. But I have been trying, and I do think the experiment is working. Though I have had very little time to write, Micah feels present to me, and, when time permits, I'm ready to bring him to life on the page.
In October, I had a wonderful opportunity to read from my novel to a group of colleagues. I enjoyed this very much and was struck afterwards by the fact that I will never read from this book for the first time again. I didn't know where they would laugh, for instance, and now I do.
I especially enjoyed the Q&A that followed the reading, and one friend asked a really wonderful question about how much what the characters have read might help them. We talked in particular about A Wrinkle in Time: if Micah has read L'Engle, does he then use this text to help him navigate the confusing layers of time travel in his own life?
I've been thinking about this question off and on since the reading. It's a question that challenges the line between author and character in that Micah can't have read in a meaningful way anything I have not read. I can put books on his shelf (or his bed, where Micah actually keeps his most special books) that I have not read myself, but I can't put those books in his world view.
Conversely, one could argue that every book I have read informed the crafting of my own book, but many of the books I have read would not interest Micah. Bright though he is, I know that he has not read Middlemarch. Once in an earnest mood he tried Oliver Twist, but he didn't get past the first sentence. These books may have helped me shape my fictional world, but it doesn't follow that they help Micah shape his real world.
This is all a long way of saying that I still don't know what Micah has read. I do know that he likes to organize his books and even built his own bookshelf out of a box that formerly held one of Celia's dolls. So, for now, I can't really build the contents of Micah's bookshelf into his character and his problem-solving skills, but I can write with confidence that the fact of the bookshelf and the organization it represents tells us quite a bit about who Micah is.
Sitting here now in my office, Micah likes how I have this semester's books on a special shelf at my side, and he loves how I put each book back in its regular place when I've finished with it. He might notice that A Wrinkle in Time is already back with the children's fiction, and if he were really here, I think he might pull it off the shelf, and I'm sure he would get well past the first sentence.
In October, I had a wonderful opportunity to read from my novel to a group of colleagues. I enjoyed this very much and was struck afterwards by the fact that I will never read from this book for the first time again. I didn't know where they would laugh, for instance, and now I do.
I especially enjoyed the Q&A that followed the reading, and one friend asked a really wonderful question about how much what the characters have read might help them. We talked in particular about A Wrinkle in Time: if Micah has read L'Engle, does he then use this text to help him navigate the confusing layers of time travel in his own life?
I've been thinking about this question off and on since the reading. It's a question that challenges the line between author and character in that Micah can't have read in a meaningful way anything I have not read. I can put books on his shelf (or his bed, where Micah actually keeps his most special books) that I have not read myself, but I can't put those books in his world view.
Conversely, one could argue that every book I have read informed the crafting of my own book, but many of the books I have read would not interest Micah. Bright though he is, I know that he has not read Middlemarch. Once in an earnest mood he tried Oliver Twist, but he didn't get past the first sentence. These books may have helped me shape my fictional world, but it doesn't follow that they help Micah shape his real world.
This is all a long way of saying that I still don't know what Micah has read. I do know that he likes to organize his books and even built his own bookshelf out of a box that formerly held one of Celia's dolls. So, for now, I can't really build the contents of Micah's bookshelf into his character and his problem-solving skills, but I can write with confidence that the fact of the bookshelf and the organization it represents tells us quite a bit about who Micah is.
Sitting here now in my office, Micah likes how I have this semester's books on a special shelf at my side, and he loves how I put each book back in its regular place when I've finished with it. He might notice that A Wrinkle in Time is already back with the children's fiction, and if he were really here, I think he might pull it off the shelf, and I'm sure he would get well past the first sentence.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Enchanted Woods
Yesterday, I had occasion to talk with my students about a wonderful short essay "On Three Ways of Writing for Children" by C.S. Lewis. I love many things about this piece. For one thing, Lewis argues against critics of fantasy, writing that if children must face troubles in their lives, let them at least be armed with tales of heroes: "Since it is so likely that they will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter but darker" (216). I agree with this claim for fantasy's use, and it makes books feel important. A fantastical adventure is not an escape; rather, it is a lesson and an inspiration.
The part of the essay that always gives me chills, though, is this:
It would be much truer to say that fairyland arouses a longing for he knows not what. It stirs and troubles him (to his lifelong enrichment) with the dim sense of something beyond his reach and, far from dulling or emptying the actual world, gives it a new dimension of depth. He does not despise real woods because he has read of enchanted woods: the reading makes all real woods a little enchanted. (214)
That literature has the power to make magic in the real world, even in the most mundane places, like wardrobes, is extraordinary. Lewis understood this, and I think children understand it.
I suppose it is my task in my Young Adult Fiction class and on this blog to help adults remember this magic. Or maybe many grown ups do remember but need permission to look into their wardrobes for other worlds, and softly, under their breaths, to whisper "Accio!" and to hope that it will summon something. And to recognize that the charm summons magic even when it doesn't work, because we had enough faith to give it a try. In that longing lies the enchantment Lewis describes.
The part of the essay that always gives me chills, though, is this:
It would be much truer to say that fairyland arouses a longing for he knows not what. It stirs and troubles him (to his lifelong enrichment) with the dim sense of something beyond his reach and, far from dulling or emptying the actual world, gives it a new dimension of depth. He does not despise real woods because he has read of enchanted woods: the reading makes all real woods a little enchanted. (214)
That literature has the power to make magic in the real world, even in the most mundane places, like wardrobes, is extraordinary. Lewis understood this, and I think children understand it.
I suppose it is my task in my Young Adult Fiction class and on this blog to help adults remember this magic. Or maybe many grown ups do remember but need permission to look into their wardrobes for other worlds, and softly, under their breaths, to whisper "Accio!" and to hope that it will summon something. And to recognize that the charm summons magic even when it doesn't work, because we had enough faith to give it a try. In that longing lies the enchantment Lewis describes.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
The Time Conundrum
My critique group had its second meeting this past weekend, and, in addition to some great discussion of our work, we also bemoaned the great time conundrum. With jobs and families and life stuff--both ordinary and extraordinary, how on earth does a person find time to write?
I wrote my first novel in fits and starts, a few pages at a time, over five years, and it feels disjointed and jagged. My fractured time led to a fractured novel. I wrote my second novel while on sabbatical over a glorious period of about six weeks during which time nothing else demanded my attention between 9 am and 5 pm. It was luxurious and rare. This novel coheres.
I won't have such time again anytime soon, and most people never have it. So, how does one write a cohesive novel without cohesive time?
People have different strategies to keep themselves writing. Some are length based: two sentences per day or one page per day. Some are time based: fifteen minutes per day or before the kids get up. Others are incentive systems: chocolate comes at the end of a writing session. Others are community based: I tell you how much I will accomplish, and you tell me you much you will accomplish, and we hold each other accountable. These are all good systems, but none of them address the cohesion issue.
I can find a few minutes per day to write, but in that fragmented work model, I lose my rhythm, and then my book feels out of sync with itself. I need to find a way to maintain my groove when I'm not writing.
So here is a new strategy I am launching today: I will continue to grab at time to write, but when I'm not writing, I will carry my main character around with me. I will think about the challenges he faces in my fictional world, and I will also imagine how he would respond to the real world situations I move through. For example, when I walk into my classroom, I will ask myself, "Where would Micah sit? What would he think of today's reading?" When I go to the grocery store, I will think about what Micah would want to buy. My hope is that taking Micah with me in my real life will make it easier to get in touch with him when I sit down to write--I will never have been out of touch--and I may even discover scenarios that I want to work into my novel.
I will report back next week. For my first exercise, I ask myself what Micah thinks of this blog post. Turns out that he doesn't get blogs at all. Doesn't see the point. And so my character develops.
I wrote my first novel in fits and starts, a few pages at a time, over five years, and it feels disjointed and jagged. My fractured time led to a fractured novel. I wrote my second novel while on sabbatical over a glorious period of about six weeks during which time nothing else demanded my attention between 9 am and 5 pm. It was luxurious and rare. This novel coheres.
I won't have such time again anytime soon, and most people never have it. So, how does one write a cohesive novel without cohesive time?
People have different strategies to keep themselves writing. Some are length based: two sentences per day or one page per day. Some are time based: fifteen minutes per day or before the kids get up. Others are incentive systems: chocolate comes at the end of a writing session. Others are community based: I tell you how much I will accomplish, and you tell me you much you will accomplish, and we hold each other accountable. These are all good systems, but none of them address the cohesion issue.
I can find a few minutes per day to write, but in that fragmented work model, I lose my rhythm, and then my book feels out of sync with itself. I need to find a way to maintain my groove when I'm not writing.
So here is a new strategy I am launching today: I will continue to grab at time to write, but when I'm not writing, I will carry my main character around with me. I will think about the challenges he faces in my fictional world, and I will also imagine how he would respond to the real world situations I move through. For example, when I walk into my classroom, I will ask myself, "Where would Micah sit? What would he think of today's reading?" When I go to the grocery store, I will think about what Micah would want to buy. My hope is that taking Micah with me in my real life will make it easier to get in touch with him when I sit down to write--I will never have been out of touch--and I may even discover scenarios that I want to work into my novel.
I will report back next week. For my first exercise, I ask myself what Micah thinks of this blog post. Turns out that he doesn't get blogs at all. Doesn't see the point. And so my character develops.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Platform, Platform, Platform
I read a lot of kid lit blogs, including many that feature interviews with industry professionals of all sorts. One of the most common questions in these interviews is some variation on this theme: how important is it for writers to develop an online platform? In this usage, "platform" describes having an online presence via the full range of social media (Facebook, Twitter, etc.). Most of the writers who appear on these blogs or maintain them by definition have said platform. However, agents and editors answer the question in radically different ways: some say platform is essential to getting published and then selling books; others don't really value platform and reply that writers should spend their time writing.
I've always liked the second answer, partly because I'd rather spend my time writing and partly because I find daunting the prospect of developing an active online presence for myself as a fiction writer. Yet, I've noticed that more and more of these industry professionals are extolling the value of platform, some with great enthusiasm, others only grudgingly. Like it or not, we writers need to be available online for others in the industry and for our readers. The theory is that without the platform there will never be any readers.
If book signings and school visits were once the way many children's authors spread the word about their books, then virtual versions of those events can only spread the word to a wider audience. Moreover, no one's going to invite me for a school visit until my book has been published, but I can blog about my book right now. Maybe a handful of people follow my blog. They like what they read. They tell some friends or ping back. More people read my blog. Suddenly, there is a community following my book before it's even available to read. This is a good thing, I think.
So, I do think writers should spend their time writing, but hanging out online building a platform can't hurt, might help, and, at the very least, is more social than writing, which is so very solitary. Thus, I plan to make this blog more active. As a platform, it's been a piece of particle board that I left out in the yard through a few rain storms, but I'll toss some cinder blocks under it, reinforce the wood, and see what happens.
I've always liked the second answer, partly because I'd rather spend my time writing and partly because I find daunting the prospect of developing an active online presence for myself as a fiction writer. Yet, I've noticed that more and more of these industry professionals are extolling the value of platform, some with great enthusiasm, others only grudgingly. Like it or not, we writers need to be available online for others in the industry and for our readers. The theory is that without the platform there will never be any readers.
If book signings and school visits were once the way many children's authors spread the word about their books, then virtual versions of those events can only spread the word to a wider audience. Moreover, no one's going to invite me for a school visit until my book has been published, but I can blog about my book right now. Maybe a handful of people follow my blog. They like what they read. They tell some friends or ping back. More people read my blog. Suddenly, there is a community following my book before it's even available to read. This is a good thing, I think.
So, I do think writers should spend their time writing, but hanging out online building a platform can't hurt, might help, and, at the very least, is more social than writing, which is so very solitary. Thus, I plan to make this blog more active. As a platform, it's been a piece of particle board that I left out in the yard through a few rain storms, but I'll toss some cinder blocks under it, reinforce the wood, and see what happens.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Good News!
I am happy to share the wonderful news that my middle-grade novel, A Sketch in Time, will be published in Catalan in May 2012 by Cruilla, a wonderful children's publisher in Barcelona.
I am grateful for the support of my family (whose voices and experiences helped shape the novel), my friends (many of whom read early versions of the novel and offered valuable feedback), Nuria (who requires far more thanks than I can put here in parentheses), my team of agents, and the city of Barcelona for inspiration.
I'll write more about the process and the particulars when I feel less giddy, if I ever do!
I am grateful for the support of my family (whose voices and experiences helped shape the novel), my friends (many of whom read early versions of the novel and offered valuable feedback), Nuria (who requires far more thanks than I can put here in parentheses), my team of agents, and the city of Barcelona for inspiration.
I'll write more about the process and the particulars when I feel less giddy, if I ever do!
Monday, June 27, 2011
Gratitude: A Story of Books and Friendship
This blog is about children's literature--the reading of it, the teaching of it, the writing of it, and the ways in which it intersects with other aspects of my life, professional and personal. I generally don't get personal here (I have other blogs for that), but today, I am driven to the personal by a staggering gift and my desire to express my gratitude to the dear friend behind the gift.
In January, while living an ocean away from home, I was diagnosed with a serious illness. My good friend Jordan Sonnenblick asked my husband what would help me at this difficult time, and the answer, as always in difficult times, was books, in particular kids' books. Jordan took action. He sent out a clarion call, as he put it, to many of his writer friends, and the response was an entire library of signed books.
A big box of books is always a thoughtful gift, but a big box of signed books, shipped across an ocean is especially welcome. The books themselves will entertain, comfort, invigorate, and inspire me. The time taken by the authors to respond to Jordan's call and to sign their books makes each book more special. And the stack of them--two stacks actually--sits by me now, a wall of words and creativity and warmth, lending strength.
But the story is not so simple, as none of the authors involved would expect it to be. A few short days after assuring Jordan that it would be safe to send this wonderful gift to us abroad, my husband and I made the heartbreaking decision that we needed to return to the US for me to get the best care. We abruptly abandoned friends, family, school, and really, really good food, and in the eight hours of a transatlantic flight found ourselves back in the US.
By this time, I had been told about the box of books, which perhaps passed east over the ocean as we traveled west. I left instructions with friends to receive the package and send it onward to me. There would be a delay, but the books would make there way to my side in good time. The packagage did not arrive. Time passed. Finally, we meet a form in triplicate and our antagonist: a nefarious, mustached bureacrat personifying Spanish Customs.
More forms. E-mails. All in Spanish. Time continues to pass. I have given up hope. I am grateful for the thought, which is what really counts. I tell myself that somewhere the children of Spanish Customs' officers have lucked into a great library of wonderful books. Perhaps good will come of this.
Finally, we get word that the package has been returned to the sender. I laugh. I do not imagine that the books will ever return to the US, but, miracle of miracles, Jordan calls to tell me the box has returned. He sends it onward. A few days later it arrives, intact, brimming with wonderful, wonderful books. Sr. Spanish Customs was defeated, or perhaps he wasn't so bad after all.
And now I sit with two stacks of books at my side, and I offer this post as a gesture of gratitude to Jordan and to all his writer friends for their generosity and for the resilience of their words, which have traveled the world and will guide me through my own journey of healing. Thank you.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
More Potter is Good, I think
Like many, I have been following the mysterious Pottermore site with interest. Today, JK Rowling revealed that it will be a site that provides at least 18,000 words of backstory on assorted characters, like McGonagall and the Dursleys, as well as some games and, here's the controversial part, access to e-books.
No one can argue that JKR has not done way more than any individual's (nay, any nation's!) part to boost book sales. Still, like so many in the book business, I am worried about what electronic publishing will do to books and bookstores, especially small independent stores who have to find ways to hold their own against local competition like B&N and against online competitors like Amazon.
I have a Kindle, and I love it, but I admit that I read differently on the Kindle. I'm nearing the end of the fourth George R.R. Martin book. I bought the first one, and then got the second for my Kindle. My husband bought hard copy. I had a hard time reading the book electronically. I needed the maps. I needed to know how many pages were left in the chapter and who came next. Ultimately, I felt less invested in the characters and the narrative on my Kindle, so as soon as my husband finished, I picked up the hard copy with great relief.
I have enjoyed some books on my Kindle--mostly books that don't feel important, that are just fun or informational--and I certainly enjoy having the Kindle and having so many books on hand wherever I am.
And this is where I get back to Harry Potter. I am a die hard HP fan. I love the books. I re-read them. I have multiple copies of each book, some in foreign languages. I even read Book 1 in Spanish to practice when I was learning the language. I have read all 7 books with my older child and am up to book 4 with my younger kids. I teach the HP books to my college students, and once, sometimes twice per year, I make classes of 25-35 students buy select books in the series. In other words, I have done my share of buying these books from booksellers small and large in four countries.
Now, I can hardly wait to have all seven books on my Kindle. I will always have them with me. Always. When I'm waiting at the doctor's office, and I'd really like to re-read the scene when Harry first gets snarky with Umbridge, I can. When I'm on a plane, and I crave the Battle of Hogwarts, it will be right there with me. It will be like a literary security blanket.
And carrying around my HP blanket will keep the books present for me, not that I think anything could make them less present. It will remind me to teach them and to read them with my kids and to buy the real books for other children I know.
I don't think children yet read e-books. Maybe they will some day, but we're not there yet. Adults will continue to buy the hard copy HP books for children they know. Why? Because the books are important. Because you must have the experience of their heft in your hands or the words on the page.
Nothing sends a shiver down the spine like the last phrase of the first chapter of the first book, "The Boy Who Lived." Seeing those words on paper is an experience everyone should have for the first time, and the second, and the third. But once that magic has become a part of you, it's OK to read the words on an e-reader. Their magic simply cannot be lessened. And having those words with me always will be magical indeed.
No one can argue that JKR has not done way more than any individual's (nay, any nation's!) part to boost book sales. Still, like so many in the book business, I am worried about what electronic publishing will do to books and bookstores, especially small independent stores who have to find ways to hold their own against local competition like B&N and against online competitors like Amazon.
I have a Kindle, and I love it, but I admit that I read differently on the Kindle. I'm nearing the end of the fourth George R.R. Martin book. I bought the first one, and then got the second for my Kindle. My husband bought hard copy. I had a hard time reading the book electronically. I needed the maps. I needed to know how many pages were left in the chapter and who came next. Ultimately, I felt less invested in the characters and the narrative on my Kindle, so as soon as my husband finished, I picked up the hard copy with great relief.
I have enjoyed some books on my Kindle--mostly books that don't feel important, that are just fun or informational--and I certainly enjoy having the Kindle and having so many books on hand wherever I am.
And this is where I get back to Harry Potter. I am a die hard HP fan. I love the books. I re-read them. I have multiple copies of each book, some in foreign languages. I even read Book 1 in Spanish to practice when I was learning the language. I have read all 7 books with my older child and am up to book 4 with my younger kids. I teach the HP books to my college students, and once, sometimes twice per year, I make classes of 25-35 students buy select books in the series. In other words, I have done my share of buying these books from booksellers small and large in four countries.
Now, I can hardly wait to have all seven books on my Kindle. I will always have them with me. Always. When I'm waiting at the doctor's office, and I'd really like to re-read the scene when Harry first gets snarky with Umbridge, I can. When I'm on a plane, and I crave the Battle of Hogwarts, it will be right there with me. It will be like a literary security blanket.
And carrying around my HP blanket will keep the books present for me, not that I think anything could make them less present. It will remind me to teach them and to read them with my kids and to buy the real books for other children I know.
I don't think children yet read e-books. Maybe they will some day, but we're not there yet. Adults will continue to buy the hard copy HP books for children they know. Why? Because the books are important. Because you must have the experience of their heft in your hands or the words on the page.
Nothing sends a shiver down the spine like the last phrase of the first chapter of the first book, "The Boy Who Lived." Seeing those words on paper is an experience everyone should have for the first time, and the second, and the third. But once that magic has become a part of you, it's OK to read the words on an e-reader. Their magic simply cannot be lessened. And having those words with me always will be magical indeed.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Tactile Muse
I am poised at a fork in my writing road: I have plotted a sequel to A Sketch in Time, which will take place mostly during the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona, and I have planned a massive revision of my first novel, This Powerful Rhyme. The revision will involve getting rid of one of the protagonists and will thus really be a complete rewriting on blank pages rather than a tinkering of pages already written. I feel drawn to both of these projects, and I expect I will tackle both in good time, but for now, I am standing at that fork, trying to decide which way to go.
This decision prompts me to think about what motivates me to write. What is my muse? The answer surprises me a little. As a professor of literature, I would think words would be my muse. Other people's lovely words that brew on the page into a solution that is more than words and more than pages. And it's true that other people's words inspire me and give me strength and direction in my life, but they do not, funnily enough, stir me to write.
What stirs me to write is the mundane feel of things in my hands. This is not a metaphor. I mean the actual feel of things in my hands, which somehow prompts me to tell stories about those things. In stories, I put these things in other people's hands, but the things are real, and there is something in the reality of them, the feel of them that leads me to write.
I've been messing around with sequel ideas since November when I finished my first draft of A Sketch in Time. I've been making notes, thinking through scenarios, problems with the plot, challenges for the characters, etc., but the story didn't click. The story finally clicked the other day when I opened an antique desk imported from Barcelona. I was taking out a picture that I'd stored inside. To open the desk, I had to use a heavy iron key that struggled into place and then made a satisfying clack as it turned and allowed me to open the door. The feel of the key in my hand, the feel of the lock shifting, the feel of the heavy door falling open in my hand. All of those feelings transported me, and, like the lock, I felt the story clack into place. The desk will be in the sequel. It will be important, but it will not be the most important thing to the story. Yet, it may be the most important thing to me, the touchstone, the muse. When the story sticks and won't come out, I can literally turn the key and trigger my tactile muse.
For This Powerful Rhyme, there is a cupboard in a bedroom. It's door used to be stuck shut, and that was the beginning of that story. Now the door opens, but I can shut the cupboard and feel it's small, odd knob between my fingers, and I think I'll remember how it felt when that door wouldn't open and how the story that came out of the fastness of that cupboard presented itself.
So, I've learned tha I write inspired by the tactile muse. But I still don't know which fork to take. Perhaps I should open both doors, the one with its iron key and the other with is small knob and see which door demands a story from me.
This decision prompts me to think about what motivates me to write. What is my muse? The answer surprises me a little. As a professor of literature, I would think words would be my muse. Other people's lovely words that brew on the page into a solution that is more than words and more than pages. And it's true that other people's words inspire me and give me strength and direction in my life, but they do not, funnily enough, stir me to write.
What stirs me to write is the mundane feel of things in my hands. This is not a metaphor. I mean the actual feel of things in my hands, which somehow prompts me to tell stories about those things. In stories, I put these things in other people's hands, but the things are real, and there is something in the reality of them, the feel of them that leads me to write.
I've been messing around with sequel ideas since November when I finished my first draft of A Sketch in Time. I've been making notes, thinking through scenarios, problems with the plot, challenges for the characters, etc., but the story didn't click. The story finally clicked the other day when I opened an antique desk imported from Barcelona. I was taking out a picture that I'd stored inside. To open the desk, I had to use a heavy iron key that struggled into place and then made a satisfying clack as it turned and allowed me to open the door. The feel of the key in my hand, the feel of the lock shifting, the feel of the heavy door falling open in my hand. All of those feelings transported me, and, like the lock, I felt the story clack into place. The desk will be in the sequel. It will be important, but it will not be the most important thing to the story. Yet, it may be the most important thing to me, the touchstone, the muse. When the story sticks and won't come out, I can literally turn the key and trigger my tactile muse.
For This Powerful Rhyme, there is a cupboard in a bedroom. It's door used to be stuck shut, and that was the beginning of that story. Now the door opens, but I can shut the cupboard and feel it's small, odd knob between my fingers, and I think I'll remember how it felt when that door wouldn't open and how the story that came out of the fastness of that cupboard presented itself.
So, I've learned tha I write inspired by the tactile muse. But I still don't know which fork to take. Perhaps I should open both doors, the one with its iron key and the other with is small knob and see which door demands a story from me.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Where Characters Come From
I have recently finished a draft of a second novel, tentatively titled "Saving Nuria," in which most of the main characters are based pretty closely on members of my family; however, some are completely invented. When I read the novel (chapter by chapter as I wrote it) to my children, they recognized themselves and events and places from our life, but there are two major characters who are not based on anyone.
I had always imagined that authors either borrowed from life or didn't, but my own experience now shows me that one author in one text can take both approaches. The character Elizabeth, for instance, is loosely based on me--she's the mother in the story. The things that she experiences are (for the most part) not things I have experienced, but her general character is mine. In contrast, Nuria is someone I made up. She's not based, as far as I'm aware, on anyone at all. I invented her. Yet, I feel just as strong a sense of who she is, what she looks like, what she would do in different situations, as I feel about the other characters who have at least distant roots in real people.
As an example, I was in a shop the other day, and a young woman came in. I was sure I knew her or had seen her before, but I couldn't place her. Finally, I realized she looked like Nuria, but Nuria is fictional! Still, she is real enough in my head that I was able to recognize someone like her in the real world.
So, where do characters come from? The protagonist children in the novel--Micah, Jamie and Celia--are versions of my own children. They are fictionalized, certainly, but I can clearly trace their origins. Nuria is a different matter. Is she based on someone I know but I haven't myself made the connection? This is possible, but I don't think so. Is she based on a fictional character? Not that I'm aware of.
To be honest, when it came time for Nuria to enter the story, I had to stop writing for a few days because I wasn't sure how to craft her. I had a sense of her, but it was vague, abstract. Finally, I envisioned a pretty face with a crinkle of worry between bright eyes, and then Nuria came to life for me. I knew Nuria before I used the crinkle to develop her character, but I don't think I could have put her on the page without the vision of the crinkle.
I don't think I've answered my question. I guess I still don't know where Nuria came from, but I do know that characters are strange creatures that come from life and from imagination and grow into people who seem truly, deeply real. I don't flatter myself that my characters are as vibrant as some of the great characters we all know and love, but they are real, at least to me.
I had always imagined that authors either borrowed from life or didn't, but my own experience now shows me that one author in one text can take both approaches. The character Elizabeth, for instance, is loosely based on me--she's the mother in the story. The things that she experiences are (for the most part) not things I have experienced, but her general character is mine. In contrast, Nuria is someone I made up. She's not based, as far as I'm aware, on anyone at all. I invented her. Yet, I feel just as strong a sense of who she is, what she looks like, what she would do in different situations, as I feel about the other characters who have at least distant roots in real people.
As an example, I was in a shop the other day, and a young woman came in. I was sure I knew her or had seen her before, but I couldn't place her. Finally, I realized she looked like Nuria, but Nuria is fictional! Still, she is real enough in my head that I was able to recognize someone like her in the real world.
So, where do characters come from? The protagonist children in the novel--Micah, Jamie and Celia--are versions of my own children. They are fictionalized, certainly, but I can clearly trace their origins. Nuria is a different matter. Is she based on someone I know but I haven't myself made the connection? This is possible, but I don't think so. Is she based on a fictional character? Not that I'm aware of.
To be honest, when it came time for Nuria to enter the story, I had to stop writing for a few days because I wasn't sure how to craft her. I had a sense of her, but it was vague, abstract. Finally, I envisioned a pretty face with a crinkle of worry between bright eyes, and then Nuria came to life for me. I knew Nuria before I used the crinkle to develop her character, but I don't think I could have put her on the page without the vision of the crinkle.
I don't think I've answered my question. I guess I still don't know where Nuria came from, but I do know that characters are strange creatures that come from life and from imagination and grow into people who seem truly, deeply real. I don't flatter myself that my characters are as vibrant as some of the great characters we all know and love, but they are real, at least to me.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Save the Humanities -- I
Stanley Fish, writing in The New York Times, exhorts college presidents to fight for the humanities. He is prompted by the recent cutting of programs in the humanities at SUNY Albany (programs like French, for goodness sake), and he points out what all of us who work in the Humanities already know: that this tragic assault on knowledge in NY is not new.
Since I began teaching English literature in the mid-90s, I have had to explain to students why they should major in English, and/or what arguments they can use to persuade their parents that majoring in English is not a waste of time, money and intellect. Frankly, despite the alarming frequency of this conversation, I am always somewhat flummoxed by the question: Why WOULDN'T a person study the humanities?
I don't have a magic answer, certainly not one that can save what has been lost at SUNY Albany and other universities like it, but I will fumble through an answer here and try to fumble toward a better one in time.
So, why should a person study the humanities? Because we live in a world with other people, and to do our jobs and to have relationships and to live in this world, we must be able to communicate with these other people. Communicating does not mean forming nice sentences with subjects and verbs, though this is important and is a skill those who study the humanities generally perform quite easily; communicating means having a common vocabulary with which we observe, understand, and discuss what happens in our lives and in the world. That common vocabulary includes words well put together, but it also includes images, metaphors, allusions, what is known, in short, as cultural literacy. A person who studies the humanities is culturally literate.
I want to stress, however, that I am not talking about the version of cultural literacy best demonstrated at cocktail parties where a person might drop a line from a classic work of literature and thus appear erudite. No, we can all say "it was the best of times, it was the worst of times" in a knowing way. What matters is knowing where the sentence comes from, what it's original context was and what it's relevance is to a particular moment. To go farther, it's knowing how Dickens's representation of the French Revolution, almost a hundred years after it happened, has a certain nostalgia to it, and when quoting the opening phrase of A Tale of Two Cities, meaning to evoke that nostalgia along with complex meanings of "best" and "worst." And when a person evokes all that meaning, she communicates more profoundly about her own moment, whether a private, personal moment or a public, national moment.
And, of course, I'm just using here the example of quoting a sentence. A person who studies the humanities can do so much more, can communicate with such richness, can understand depths of personal and cultural experience, and can articulate with such nuance and clarity what she understands that whether she's a banker or a baker, her life will be richer and her job better done.
Stay tuned for how the humanities don't offer only a common vocabulary, but how they also give us the tools to value difference.
Since I began teaching English literature in the mid-90s, I have had to explain to students why they should major in English, and/or what arguments they can use to persuade their parents that majoring in English is not a waste of time, money and intellect. Frankly, despite the alarming frequency of this conversation, I am always somewhat flummoxed by the question: Why WOULDN'T a person study the humanities?
I don't have a magic answer, certainly not one that can save what has been lost at SUNY Albany and other universities like it, but I will fumble through an answer here and try to fumble toward a better one in time.
So, why should a person study the humanities? Because we live in a world with other people, and to do our jobs and to have relationships and to live in this world, we must be able to communicate with these other people. Communicating does not mean forming nice sentences with subjects and verbs, though this is important and is a skill those who study the humanities generally perform quite easily; communicating means having a common vocabulary with which we observe, understand, and discuss what happens in our lives and in the world. That common vocabulary includes words well put together, but it also includes images, metaphors, allusions, what is known, in short, as cultural literacy. A person who studies the humanities is culturally literate.
I want to stress, however, that I am not talking about the version of cultural literacy best demonstrated at cocktail parties where a person might drop a line from a classic work of literature and thus appear erudite. No, we can all say "it was the best of times, it was the worst of times" in a knowing way. What matters is knowing where the sentence comes from, what it's original context was and what it's relevance is to a particular moment. To go farther, it's knowing how Dickens's representation of the French Revolution, almost a hundred years after it happened, has a certain nostalgia to it, and when quoting the opening phrase of A Tale of Two Cities, meaning to evoke that nostalgia along with complex meanings of "best" and "worst." And when a person evokes all that meaning, she communicates more profoundly about her own moment, whether a private, personal moment or a public, national moment.
And, of course, I'm just using here the example of quoting a sentence. A person who studies the humanities can do so much more, can communicate with such richness, can understand depths of personal and cultural experience, and can articulate with such nuance and clarity what she understands that whether she's a banker or a baker, her life will be richer and her job better done.
Stay tuned for how the humanities don't offer only a common vocabulary, but how they also give us the tools to value difference.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Jane Austen Workout
I haven't posted to this blog in a long time. I've spent the summer traveling and am now settled in Barcelona for my sabbatical. I spend my days working on some scholarly articles and thinking about my second novel. It's a good life!
Along with reading and writing (and the occasional delectable meal out--who can live in Barcelona and not make eating a high priority?), I am also getting into a regular gym routine. And I think I have finally stumbled into a workout that may actually work for me. I'm calling it the Jane Austen Workout.
While most people are motivated by Lady Gaga or Cyndi Lauper while they bounce to the beat on the stair stepper, I have always gotten bored with my techno playlists after one or two workouts. I don't like to watch TV at the gym, especially when the only channel is BarcaTV, a channel entirely devoted to the Barcelona futbol team (I'm a fan, but really?), and I can't read without my glasses, don't like to wear my glasses while I exercise, blah blah blah. So all this aural and visual finickiness leaves me bored and uninspired at the gym.
I've also tried listening to assorted podcasts, and this has been somewhat more successful. However, I need to be listening to something that really holds my attention or else my mind wanders and then I'm wondering why Melvyn Brag is chortling about Boadicea (In Our Time) or which Middle Eastern pottery shard (History of the World in 100 Objects) we're learning about now.
So, what really holds my attention? A good book! If it's a book I haven't read before, then I don't have the patience for an audiobook because I want to tear through it quickly. If it's a book I know really well, then I have the mind wandering problem again. Taking all of this into consideration, I settled on the Jane Austen novels that I don't know very well.
Of course, English PhD that I am, I have read all of Austen's novels, but Pride and Prejudice and Emma are the ones I teach and thus read over and over again. I haven't read the others more than once and not for a long time. I know what happens, so I don't need to hurry through the books like I do with first reads, but I don't remember the details, so I enjoy savoring them in the slow format of the audiobook. Plus, these books are in the public domain, so I have found free audio versions through Booksshouldbefree.com. I'm listening to Persuasion first and finding myself, for the first time in a long time, quite happy to go to the gym.
I could go on about an aging heroine and an aging exerciser, but that would be unflattering to both Anne Elliot and myself, so I'll just say that I'm thrilled and surprised to have discovered that after all these years of resisting exercise, it was Jane Austen who would help me get in shape!
Along with reading and writing (and the occasional delectable meal out--who can live in Barcelona and not make eating a high priority?), I am also getting into a regular gym routine. And I think I have finally stumbled into a workout that may actually work for me. I'm calling it the Jane Austen Workout.
While most people are motivated by Lady Gaga or Cyndi Lauper while they bounce to the beat on the stair stepper, I have always gotten bored with my techno playlists after one or two workouts. I don't like to watch TV at the gym, especially when the only channel is BarcaTV, a channel entirely devoted to the Barcelona futbol team (I'm a fan, but really?), and I can't read without my glasses, don't like to wear my glasses while I exercise, blah blah blah. So all this aural and visual finickiness leaves me bored and uninspired at the gym.
I've also tried listening to assorted podcasts, and this has been somewhat more successful. However, I need to be listening to something that really holds my attention or else my mind wanders and then I'm wondering why Melvyn Brag is chortling about Boadicea (In Our Time) or which Middle Eastern pottery shard (History of the World in 100 Objects) we're learning about now.
So, what really holds my attention? A good book! If it's a book I haven't read before, then I don't have the patience for an audiobook because I want to tear through it quickly. If it's a book I know really well, then I have the mind wandering problem again. Taking all of this into consideration, I settled on the Jane Austen novels that I don't know very well.
Of course, English PhD that I am, I have read all of Austen's novels, but Pride and Prejudice and Emma are the ones I teach and thus read over and over again. I haven't read the others more than once and not for a long time. I know what happens, so I don't need to hurry through the books like I do with first reads, but I don't remember the details, so I enjoy savoring them in the slow format of the audiobook. Plus, these books are in the public domain, so I have found free audio versions through Booksshouldbefree.com. I'm listening to Persuasion first and finding myself, for the first time in a long time, quite happy to go to the gym.
I could go on about an aging heroine and an aging exerciser, but that would be unflattering to both Anne Elliot and myself, so I'll just say that I'm thrilled and surprised to have discovered that after all these years of resisting exercise, it was Jane Austen who would help me get in shape!
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Reader, I Married Him
Many of my readers will recognize the title of this post as a key line from Jane Eyre, a novel famously written in the first person. I am at the very beginning of a second novel, which, unlike my first novel, is written in the first person. I am struck by how much easier it is to convey voice and character with first person but how much harder tense is.
Tense may seem like syntax 101, but in narrative, tense locates the voice in time vis-a-vis the action of the novel. Jane narrates in the first person from a time several years after the events of the novel, so she has knowledge that she chooses to keep from the reader and to dole out as she (or really as Charlotte Bronte) sees fit. The narrating Jane knew all along that she married "him," but she keeps the reader in suspense. The past tense in the sentence that titles this post reminds the reader that the narrator knew this key event would occur.
In my novel, the character is caught up in a mystery that he doesn't yet understand, so while I am firmly committed to the first person for this narrative, I have to make a really important decision about tense.
Does my protagonist narrate in the present tense? "I walk in the room, and I see a dragon." With a present tense first person the reader and the narrator are pretty much equals in terms of access to information about the events of the story. This has merits, but you lose the ability to allow the narrator to frame the events. I can pretty readily rule out present tense.
The real choice is between a past tense that puts the narrator in medias res and a past tense that puts the narrator at a time after the events of the story (like Jane). To put the narrator in medias res might mean that my character is narrating from a point midway through the story: the narrative would be in the past tense to a point and then shift into present tense. This can be exciting, but I'm not exactly writing an adventure story.
I do want some reflective framing on the part of the narrator, so I think it does make the most sense to follow Bronte and have my narrator temporally based after the events of the story. Thus, he can write about himself and what happened to him in the past tense while using the narrative to guide the reader's understanding and feeling about the story. For example, "I didn't expect to see anything out of the ordinary when I walked in the room, but the dragon was evidently expecting me." This is a much more interesting sentence than the present tense version above.
Yet, some readers are annoyed by Jane's vantage point outside the action and, in a way, above the reader. They find her manipulative, but maybe she is, and maybe that's part of her character's complexity and Bronte's genius. I don't want my readers to find my character manipulative, but I'd like them to find him smart and self-aware, characteristics I may be able to convey with the narrative voice.
When I commit to a past tense first person narrative in which the narrator is beyond the events in the novel, I have to think about why the narrator wants to tell the story, what he thinks about it after the fact, what he learned along the way, and what all that distance means for the tone he will take, the words he will choose, and the ways in which he will place emphasis. The narrative voice, thus, not only tells the story, but tells the reader what impact the story had on the main character. And it must tell this meta-story without spoiling the plot, so when whatever my "Reader, I married him" sentence comes along, my reader is at once pleasantly surprised and really knew it all along.
Tense may seem like syntax 101, but in narrative, tense locates the voice in time vis-a-vis the action of the novel. Jane narrates in the first person from a time several years after the events of the novel, so she has knowledge that she chooses to keep from the reader and to dole out as she (or really as Charlotte Bronte) sees fit. The narrating Jane knew all along that she married "him," but she keeps the reader in suspense. The past tense in the sentence that titles this post reminds the reader that the narrator knew this key event would occur.
In my novel, the character is caught up in a mystery that he doesn't yet understand, so while I am firmly committed to the first person for this narrative, I have to make a really important decision about tense.
Does my protagonist narrate in the present tense? "I walk in the room, and I see a dragon." With a present tense first person the reader and the narrator are pretty much equals in terms of access to information about the events of the story. This has merits, but you lose the ability to allow the narrator to frame the events. I can pretty readily rule out present tense.
The real choice is between a past tense that puts the narrator in medias res and a past tense that puts the narrator at a time after the events of the story (like Jane). To put the narrator in medias res might mean that my character is narrating from a point midway through the story: the narrative would be in the past tense to a point and then shift into present tense. This can be exciting, but I'm not exactly writing an adventure story.
I do want some reflective framing on the part of the narrator, so I think it does make the most sense to follow Bronte and have my narrator temporally based after the events of the story. Thus, he can write about himself and what happened to him in the past tense while using the narrative to guide the reader's understanding and feeling about the story. For example, "I didn't expect to see anything out of the ordinary when I walked in the room, but the dragon was evidently expecting me." This is a much more interesting sentence than the present tense version above.
Yet, some readers are annoyed by Jane's vantage point outside the action and, in a way, above the reader. They find her manipulative, but maybe she is, and maybe that's part of her character's complexity and Bronte's genius. I don't want my readers to find my character manipulative, but I'd like them to find him smart and self-aware, characteristics I may be able to convey with the narrative voice.
When I commit to a past tense first person narrative in which the narrator is beyond the events in the novel, I have to think about why the narrator wants to tell the story, what he thinks about it after the fact, what he learned along the way, and what all that distance means for the tone he will take, the words he will choose, and the ways in which he will place emphasis. The narrative voice, thus, not only tells the story, but tells the reader what impact the story had on the main character. And it must tell this meta-story without spoiling the plot, so when whatever my "Reader, I married him" sentence comes along, my reader is at once pleasantly surprised and really knew it all along.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Lost: The End
Apologies to the readers of this blog who don't watch "Lost," and SPOILER ALERT to those who do but haven't yet watched the series finale. These are my thoughts on the final episode of the show I watched loyally from the very beginning.
I liked a lot about the finale. For one thing, I thought it was exceptionally well written. The echoes of conversations past were moving and well done. In particular, I found Kate's redelivery of Aaron to be lovely. I also quite liked that Jack passed the island torch to Hurley (which I anticipated BTW), though I would have really enjoyed even just one scene showing Hurley stepping into that role. Maybe we get that a little bit when he asks Ben to be his second in command. I also really liked that moment: all Ben has wanted is to be wanted, and he's been such a rich and complex character all along, I was happy to see him get what he wants. I also thought there was a sweetness to him happily accepting second-in-command. I thought all the scenes of remembering were good, and it's not easy to dramatize remembering. These scenes served the dual purpose of reminding the characters of their other life (nice echoes of "I'll see you in another life, Brother."), and allowing the viewers to savor key moments past.
I did not like the end. Let me say first how I interpret the end (and I will concede that I DO like that they left us with things to interpret). I do not think they all died in the plane crash. I base my assertion on (a) the fact that if they all died in the original crash, then the whole show is a cipher, and I can't accept that and don't think the creators would want to leave us with that, and (b) Christian Shepard's comment that some of these people died before Jack and some long after. I think it's pretty clear that Christian is meant to be the voice of authority at the end, and so I think we can believe what he says. Thus, I conclude that some characters died in ways we know about (like Boone, Shannon, Libby, Locke, etc.) and others died later in life. Kate and Sawyer, for instance, got off the island and lived lives of one kind or another until they died later on of causes unrelated to the island (presumably). Jack died on the island, killed by Smokey, having "fixed" everything one last time, his eye closing on his life and on the series. A really lovely (if expected) final image.
OK, so I don't think they all died in the crash. I believe Christian. The primary reason I found the end of the series so unsatisfying is because the show ultimately failed to reconcile science and faith. All along this reason/faith conundrum has been a major theme, running most notably through the character arcs of Jack and Locke. And the show has, in my opinion, consistently done reason (read: science) better than faith, which is by definition slippery. Case in point: one of the best episodes of the series was "The Constant," in which we get insight into Daniel's theoretical physics and learn that Desmond is a constant when it comes to a form of time travel. In the finale, Desmond's constancy became much more amorphous and angel-like, rather than plausibly interwoven into something like real physics. The fact that Daniel really had no role to play in the denouement (other than the piano!) and didn't get to go to church with the rest of the lostaways signifies how the creators had moved away from the scientific themes.
Did Oceanic 815 crash because Jacob brought broken people to the island to replace him, or did it crash because Desmond failed to push the button and thus released an enormous amount of energy? I would have really liked the final answer to be both, but the creators ultimately shoved Desmond's action under the carpet and left us with Jacob. Similarly, and worse, was the sideways world an alternate reality created by the strategic detonation of a hydrogen bomb, or a purgatory that doesn't really exist in any sort of reality? Again, why couldn't it have been both? I'm fine with them leaving Sideways behind (with the massive exception of Jack who has a son and a much better life in Sideways than he ever had in reality), but did the show need to so completely obliterate the reality of sideways?
Finally, I find it sad that so many characters didn't go on to have better or more meaningful lives than they had on the island. (Sayid is the saddest of all: OK, he never gets Nadia, but he never gets to do better than Shannon, either?). Again, if we believe Christian, all these folks who lived lives of varying lengths (Hurley, for instance, may have lived a couple thousand years a la Jacob) never experienced anything more important than the time they were on the island? I appreciate that the show's creators wanted to leave the viewers with a sort of happy ending, but we've been so invested in these people getting better lives for themselves that to learn they never, ever did is a horrible blow.
I would much rather have been left with a flash forward montage of Kate and Claire cheering on Aaron at a soccer game; of Rose and Bernard placing flowers on Jack's grave, while Hurley benignly commands a group of latter day Others who are much more functional than their predecessors; and of Sawyer shedding his assumed name and the many ghosts of his past.
"Lost" was a great show, game changing in many ways, and the last ten minutes of the finale don't undo six years of amazing television, but I wish they could have lived up to their own potential in THE END.
I liked a lot about the finale. For one thing, I thought it was exceptionally well written. The echoes of conversations past were moving and well done. In particular, I found Kate's redelivery of Aaron to be lovely. I also quite liked that Jack passed the island torch to Hurley (which I anticipated BTW), though I would have really enjoyed even just one scene showing Hurley stepping into that role. Maybe we get that a little bit when he asks Ben to be his second in command. I also really liked that moment: all Ben has wanted is to be wanted, and he's been such a rich and complex character all along, I was happy to see him get what he wants. I also thought there was a sweetness to him happily accepting second-in-command. I thought all the scenes of remembering were good, and it's not easy to dramatize remembering. These scenes served the dual purpose of reminding the characters of their other life (nice echoes of "I'll see you in another life, Brother."), and allowing the viewers to savor key moments past.
I did not like the end. Let me say first how I interpret the end (and I will concede that I DO like that they left us with things to interpret). I do not think they all died in the plane crash. I base my assertion on (a) the fact that if they all died in the original crash, then the whole show is a cipher, and I can't accept that and don't think the creators would want to leave us with that, and (b) Christian Shepard's comment that some of these people died before Jack and some long after. I think it's pretty clear that Christian is meant to be the voice of authority at the end, and so I think we can believe what he says. Thus, I conclude that some characters died in ways we know about (like Boone, Shannon, Libby, Locke, etc.) and others died later in life. Kate and Sawyer, for instance, got off the island and lived lives of one kind or another until they died later on of causes unrelated to the island (presumably). Jack died on the island, killed by Smokey, having "fixed" everything one last time, his eye closing on his life and on the series. A really lovely (if expected) final image.
OK, so I don't think they all died in the crash. I believe Christian. The primary reason I found the end of the series so unsatisfying is because the show ultimately failed to reconcile science and faith. All along this reason/faith conundrum has been a major theme, running most notably through the character arcs of Jack and Locke. And the show has, in my opinion, consistently done reason (read: science) better than faith, which is by definition slippery. Case in point: one of the best episodes of the series was "The Constant," in which we get insight into Daniel's theoretical physics and learn that Desmond is a constant when it comes to a form of time travel. In the finale, Desmond's constancy became much more amorphous and angel-like, rather than plausibly interwoven into something like real physics. The fact that Daniel really had no role to play in the denouement (other than the piano!) and didn't get to go to church with the rest of the lostaways signifies how the creators had moved away from the scientific themes.
Did Oceanic 815 crash because Jacob brought broken people to the island to replace him, or did it crash because Desmond failed to push the button and thus released an enormous amount of energy? I would have really liked the final answer to be both, but the creators ultimately shoved Desmond's action under the carpet and left us with Jacob. Similarly, and worse, was the sideways world an alternate reality created by the strategic detonation of a hydrogen bomb, or a purgatory that doesn't really exist in any sort of reality? Again, why couldn't it have been both? I'm fine with them leaving Sideways behind (with the massive exception of Jack who has a son and a much better life in Sideways than he ever had in reality), but did the show need to so completely obliterate the reality of sideways?
Finally, I find it sad that so many characters didn't go on to have better or more meaningful lives than they had on the island. (Sayid is the saddest of all: OK, he never gets Nadia, but he never gets to do better than Shannon, either?). Again, if we believe Christian, all these folks who lived lives of varying lengths (Hurley, for instance, may have lived a couple thousand years a la Jacob) never experienced anything more important than the time they were on the island? I appreciate that the show's creators wanted to leave the viewers with a sort of happy ending, but we've been so invested in these people getting better lives for themselves that to learn they never, ever did is a horrible blow.
I would much rather have been left with a flash forward montage of Kate and Claire cheering on Aaron at a soccer game; of Rose and Bernard placing flowers on Jack's grave, while Hurley benignly commands a group of latter day Others who are much more functional than their predecessors; and of Sawyer shedding his assumed name and the many ghosts of his past.
"Lost" was a great show, game changing in many ways, and the last ten minutes of the finale don't undo six years of amazing television, but I wish they could have lived up to their own potential in THE END.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
It's All About Stupid, Stupid
I'm enjoying my first critique session (is it a session if it's virtual?) with a fellow middle-grade writer I met at SCBWI, and I want to take this opportunity to wax poetic about the value of critique. I've had lots of people read my book--some friends and family and some English-professor colleagues--and all have been helpful, but now what I can benefit from the most is someone who is as embroiled in the genre as I am. And someone who is able and willing to read at a level of detail that I simply can't see anymore.
For instance, it turns out that about the only adjective one of my characters uses is "stupid." I knew I was overusing the word, but it took my critique partner highlighting again and again for me to realize that I need to vary my word choice. In my latest revision, I think I actually got better at describing this particular character's attitude in select moments, but I need to sustain that in all moments and take my red pen (or my delete key) like a weapon into the land of all those stupids.
Perhaps more important than overuse of a pretty lame adjective, my reader is also showing me places where she is confused. Of course, I am never confused because I always understand what's going on in the narrative, so I can be pretty blind to places that create confusion for my reader. Realizing I need to explain or clarify in certain scenes is invaluable.
And finally, as I always tell my students, I am also getting a lot out of the experience of reading my partner's chapters. She does some things a lot better than I do, and I might learn a thing or two from her about voice and pace. And when I find myself occasionally confused by her text, it helps me to think more clearly about the challenges all writers (including myself) face in balancing mystery against confusion.
So, in sum, all readers are good readers in one way or another, but an extra big, enthusiastic yay for critique partners!
For instance, it turns out that about the only adjective one of my characters uses is "stupid." I knew I was overusing the word, but it took my critique partner highlighting again and again for me to realize that I need to vary my word choice. In my latest revision, I think I actually got better at describing this particular character's attitude in select moments, but I need to sustain that in all moments and take my red pen (or my delete key) like a weapon into the land of all those stupids.
Perhaps more important than overuse of a pretty lame adjective, my reader is also showing me places where she is confused. Of course, I am never confused because I always understand what's going on in the narrative, so I can be pretty blind to places that create confusion for my reader. Realizing I need to explain or clarify in certain scenes is invaluable.
And finally, as I always tell my students, I am also getting a lot out of the experience of reading my partner's chapters. She does some things a lot better than I do, and I might learn a thing or two from her about voice and pace. And when I find myself occasionally confused by her text, it helps me to think more clearly about the challenges all writers (including myself) face in balancing mystery against confusion.
So, in sum, all readers are good readers in one way or another, but an extra big, enthusiastic yay for critique partners!
Monday, April 26, 2010
Meter Tag
On Friday, I visited my son's 4th grade class to teach the kids about poetic meter. I used an activity that I actually use at Bucknell where the students invent movements to go along with each metric foot (like a skip for an iamb -- an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed one) and then have relay races to see which metric form is fastest. On Friday, dactyls won the race. It was highly entertaining, and showing kids that poetry can be fun is pretty awesome.
Today, I got a packet of thank-you notes, many with pictures of the kids leaping around and some with poems they wrote. They thanked me for teaching them about meter, and many of them wrote about meter in ways they showed they really understood it. One kid wrote, "Thanks for showing us how to dance to poetry," and another wrote, "I learned more about meter and poetry than I will ever learn." Reading their notes has completely filled me with joy!
In my novel, the main characters attend a poetry camp, and I feel a renewed sense of commitment to that part of the novel. Poetry is accessible and interesting and entertaining to children! Maybe I can find a way to get some of the joy from meter tag and from the thank you notes into my book.
Today, I got a packet of thank-you notes, many with pictures of the kids leaping around and some with poems they wrote. They thanked me for teaching them about meter, and many of them wrote about meter in ways they showed they really understood it. One kid wrote, "Thanks for showing us how to dance to poetry," and another wrote, "I learned more about meter and poetry than I will ever learn." Reading their notes has completely filled me with joy!
In my novel, the main characters attend a poetry camp, and I feel a renewed sense of commitment to that part of the novel. Poetry is accessible and interesting and entertaining to children! Maybe I can find a way to get some of the joy from meter tag and from the thank you notes into my book.
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