Jennifer R. Hubbard's Blog, page 93
July 22, 2011
History Detectives
There's a PBS show called History Detectives, which I find riveting. (The only trouble is what it shares with all PBS shows: a tendency to play hide-and-seek with the viewer, disappearing just when I get used to finding it on a certain channel at a certain time.) In the show, researchers meet up with people who have objects that are supposedly of historical significance, and the researchers do what they can to find out the true stories behind the objects. Usually the objects are family heirlooms, handed down along with family stories, or else they're objects the current owner bought at a yard sale or found in the trash. A scrap of old film: What movie was it from, who are these actors, and what does this tell us about film history? A piece of cable found on the beach: Was it really part of the trans-Atlantic cable? A WWII-era dagger handed down through a family: Did it really belong to Mussolini? These are the kinds of questions they research.
My husband has done a fair amount of genealogical research, and he has discovered something that the history detectives find as well: Oral histories are unreliable, especially when they've gone through a few generations of story-tellers. What we think we know about our family heirlooms and our families' pasts may not be what really happened. And yet, there is usually at least a thread of truth, and sometimes more than that.
History Detectives is a great show for writers to watch because it deals with story. It takes a concrete, specific object and uses it to make larger points about society, history and culture. If the detectives are researching something from, say, the Prohibition Era, we find out all sorts of little-known facts about Prohibition, in addition to learning about the object in question. From the show, I've also learned about historic events that I hadn't even heard of before, such as the Black Tom explosion of 1916, in which spies blew up two million pounds of ammunition in New York harbor.
The unexpected, the garbled, the sort-of-true, the not-true-at-all; the larger story behind the small details; the roles real people play in major historic events: this is writers' material.
My husband has done a fair amount of genealogical research, and he has discovered something that the history detectives find as well: Oral histories are unreliable, especially when they've gone through a few generations of story-tellers. What we think we know about our family heirlooms and our families' pasts may not be what really happened. And yet, there is usually at least a thread of truth, and sometimes more than that.
History Detectives is a great show for writers to watch because it deals with story. It takes a concrete, specific object and uses it to make larger points about society, history and culture. If the detectives are researching something from, say, the Prohibition Era, we find out all sorts of little-known facts about Prohibition, in addition to learning about the object in question. From the show, I've also learned about historic events that I hadn't even heard of before, such as the Black Tom explosion of 1916, in which spies blew up two million pounds of ammunition in New York harbor.
The unexpected, the garbled, the sort-of-true, the not-true-at-all; the larger story behind the small details; the roles real people play in major historic events: this is writers' material.
History Detectives
There's a PBS show called History Detectives, which I find riveting. (The only trouble is what it shares with all PBS shows: a tendency to play hide-and-seek with the viewer, disappearing just when I get used to finding it on a certain channel at a certain time.) In the show, researchers meet up with people who have objects that are supposedly of historical significance, and the researchers do what they can to find out the true stories behind the objects. Usually the objects are family heirlooms, handed down along with family stories, or else they're objects the current owner bought at a yard sale or found in the trash. A scrap of old film: What movie was it from, who are these actors, and what does this tell us about film history? A piece of cable found on the beach: Was it really part of the trans-Atlantic cable? A WWII-era dagger handed down through a family: Did it really belong to Mussolini? These are the kinds of questions they research.
My husband has done a fair amount of genealogical research, and he has discovered something that the history detectives find as well: Oral histories are unreliable, especially when they've gone through a few generations of story-tellers. What we think we know about our family heirlooms and our families' pasts may not be what really happened. And yet, there is usually at least a thread of truth, and sometimes more than that.
History Detectives is a great show for writers to watch because it deals with story. It takes a concrete, specific object and uses it to make larger points about society, history and culture. If the detectives are researching something from, say, the Prohibition Era, we find out all sorts of little-known facts about Prohibition, in addition to learning about the object in question. From the show, I've also learned about historic events that I hadn't even heard of before, such as the Black Tom explosion of 1916, in which spies blew up two million pounds of ammunition in New York harbor.
The unexpected, the garbled, the sort-of-true, the not-true-at-all; the larger story behind the small details; the roles real people play in major historic events: this is writers' material.
My husband has done a fair amount of genealogical research, and he has discovered something that the history detectives find as well: Oral histories are unreliable, especially when they've gone through a few generations of story-tellers. What we think we know about our family heirlooms and our families' pasts may not be what really happened. And yet, there is usually at least a thread of truth, and sometimes more than that.
History Detectives is a great show for writers to watch because it deals with story. It takes a concrete, specific object and uses it to make larger points about society, history and culture. If the detectives are researching something from, say, the Prohibition Era, we find out all sorts of little-known facts about Prohibition, in addition to learning about the object in question. From the show, I've also learned about historic events that I hadn't even heard of before, such as the Black Tom explosion of 1916, in which spies blew up two million pounds of ammunition in New York harbor.
The unexpected, the garbled, the sort-of-true, the not-true-at-all; the larger story behind the small details; the roles real people play in major historic events: this is writers' material.
July 21, 2011
Full circle endings
"When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home."
This is the first line of S. E. Hinton's classic YA novel, The Outsiders.
It is also the last line.
You may have heard that the seeds of a book's ending are in its beginning, that a good ending often carries echoes of the starting point. Writers rarely apply that advice as literally as Hinton did, but it is a concept that has been very useful to me.
When I wrote the first draft of my second novel, it was about two-thirds the length that it is now, and it ended much earlier. When I started revising it into a second draft, I couldn't shake the sense that the main character hadn't really completed his journey, that something more had to happen. And I looked back to the beginning.
There I found the seeds to a new ending--not only a new ending, but a new climactic event that was even more dramatic than the event I'd originally thought of as the climax. And now I make this a practice: if I have any trouble figuring out how to end a story, I look back to the beginning and search for seeds that I can water and bring to fruition.
This is the first line of S. E. Hinton's classic YA novel, The Outsiders.
It is also the last line.
You may have heard that the seeds of a book's ending are in its beginning, that a good ending often carries echoes of the starting point. Writers rarely apply that advice as literally as Hinton did, but it is a concept that has been very useful to me.
When I wrote the first draft of my second novel, it was about two-thirds the length that it is now, and it ended much earlier. When I started revising it into a second draft, I couldn't shake the sense that the main character hadn't really completed his journey, that something more had to happen. And I looked back to the beginning.
There I found the seeds to a new ending--not only a new ending, but a new climactic event that was even more dramatic than the event I'd originally thought of as the climax. And now I make this a practice: if I have any trouble figuring out how to end a story, I look back to the beginning and search for seeds that I can water and bring to fruition.
July 20, 2011
Full circle endings
"When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home."
This is the first line of S. E. Hinton's classic YA novel, The Outsiders.
It is also the last line.
You may have heard that the seeds of a book's ending are in its beginning, that a good ending often carries echoes of the starting point. Writers rarely apply that advice as literally as Hinton did, but it is a concept that has been very useful to me.
When I wrote the first draft of my second novel, it was about two-thirds the length that it is now, and it ended much earlier. When I started revising it into a second draft, I couldn't shake the sense that the main character hadn't really completed his journey, that something more had to happen. And I looked back to the beginning.
There I found the seeds to a new ending--not only a new ending, but a new climactic event that was even more dramatic than the event I'd originally thought of as the climax. And now I make this a practice: if I have any trouble figuring out how to end a story, I look back to the beginning and search for seeds that I can water and bring to fruition.
This is the first line of S. E. Hinton's classic YA novel, The Outsiders.
It is also the last line.
You may have heard that the seeds of a book's ending are in its beginning, that a good ending often carries echoes of the starting point. Writers rarely apply that advice as literally as Hinton did, but it is a concept that has been very useful to me.
When I wrote the first draft of my second novel, it was about two-thirds the length that it is now, and it ended much earlier. When I started revising it into a second draft, I couldn't shake the sense that the main character hadn't really completed his journey, that something more had to happen. And I looked back to the beginning.
There I found the seeds to a new ending--not only a new ending, but a new climactic event that was even more dramatic than the event I'd originally thought of as the climax. And now I make this a practice: if I have any trouble figuring out how to end a story, I look back to the beginning and search for seeds that I can water and bring to fruition.
July 19, 2011
But I Love Him
I rarely read teasers posted on people's blogs, because I tend to be the kind of Type A personality that wants to be able to read the whole piece right away if I like the sample. But before I learned this lesson, I read a sample of a work in progress called "Shattered" by Mandy Hubbard (no relation to me). In fact, this was one of the writing samples that was responsible for my policy of reading very few teasers. I commented right away that I wanted to read the whole "Shattered" project, and I rooted for it the whole time it was on submission. Finally, it is out in published form, under a different title and a pen name (the pen name chosen not to keep her identity secret, but to distinguish this darker, serious book from Mandy Hubbard's lighter works, Prada and Prejudice and You Wish):
But I Love Him, by Amanda Grace. This contemporary YA novel starts with Ann, who has just been beaten by her boyfriend, and unfolds in reverse chronological order over the year she has been involved with him. How did she, a college-bound student with friends and an interest in sports, change into a girl whose whole world revolved around one person? And when did it change from something lovely and exciting into a relationship ruled by fear and regret? This book shows that there is no one moment when such changes occur, but rather there are threads and complications. There are good times that keep the main character hooked even when the bad times get worse. And most of all, Ann stays because of her intense sense of being needed.
I applaud the author for not painting the abusive boyfriend as an unrelieved villain. I've never been a big fan of making any single character an embodiment of evil. I think that dividing people into a binary world of good-or-evil not only allows us to demonize some, but also blinds us to the evil that may be done by people who are otherwise charming. In this book, the boyfriend, Connor, is not just possessive, impulsive, and violent. He is at times depressed and needy; he is at other times sweet and understanding. He is not only a perpetrator of violence, but a victim. In other words, he is fully realized. If he were a full-time monster, he would be easy for Ann to walk away from. Instead, Ann has to sort through the complexities of her own needs, and to decide whether the forces that draw her to Connor can survive the pain of being with him. She starts out with a notion that her love can fix him, and that notion is severely challenged.
In the end, while Connor's behavior is explained by the author, it is not excused, and this is Ann's story, with Ann's decision to make.
source of recommended read: bought
But I Love Him, by Amanda Grace. This contemporary YA novel starts with Ann, who has just been beaten by her boyfriend, and unfolds in reverse chronological order over the year she has been involved with him. How did she, a college-bound student with friends and an interest in sports, change into a girl whose whole world revolved around one person? And when did it change from something lovely and exciting into a relationship ruled by fear and regret? This book shows that there is no one moment when such changes occur, but rather there are threads and complications. There are good times that keep the main character hooked even when the bad times get worse. And most of all, Ann stays because of her intense sense of being needed.
I applaud the author for not painting the abusive boyfriend as an unrelieved villain. I've never been a big fan of making any single character an embodiment of evil. I think that dividing people into a binary world of good-or-evil not only allows us to demonize some, but also blinds us to the evil that may be done by people who are otherwise charming. In this book, the boyfriend, Connor, is not just possessive, impulsive, and violent. He is at times depressed and needy; he is at other times sweet and understanding. He is not only a perpetrator of violence, but a victim. In other words, he is fully realized. If he were a full-time monster, he would be easy for Ann to walk away from. Instead, Ann has to sort through the complexities of her own needs, and to decide whether the forces that draw her to Connor can survive the pain of being with him. She starts out with a notion that her love can fix him, and that notion is severely challenged.
In the end, while Connor's behavior is explained by the author, it is not excused, and this is Ann's story, with Ann's decision to make.
source of recommended read: bought
July 18, 2011
But I Love Him
I rarely read teasers posted on people's blogs, because I tend to be the kind of Type A personality that wants to be able to read the whole piece right away if I like the sample. But before I learned this lesson, I read a sample of a work in progress called "Shattered" by Mandy Hubbard (no relation to me). In fact, this was one of the writing samples that was responsible for my policy of reading very few teasers. I commented right away that I wanted to read the whole "Shattered" project, and I rooted for it the whole time it was on submission. Finally, it is out in published form, under a different title and a pen name (the pen name chosen not to keep her identity secret, but to distinguish this darker, serious book from Mandy Hubbard's lighter works, Prada and Prejudice and You Wish):
But I Love Him, by Amanda Grace. This contemporary YA novel starts with Ann, who has just been beaten by her boyfriend, and unfolds in reverse chronological order over the year she has been involved with him. How did she, a college-bound student with friends and an interest in sports, change into a girl whose whole world revolved around one person? And when did it change from something lovely and exciting into a relationship ruled by fear and regret? This book shows that there is no one moment when such changes occur, but rather there are threads and complications. There are good times that keep the main character hooked even when the bad times get worse. And most of all, Ann stays because of her intense sense of being needed.
I applaud the author for not painting the abusive boyfriend as an unrelieved villain. I've never been a big fan of making any single character an embodiment of evil. I think that dividing people into a binary world of good-or-evil not only allows us to demonize some, but also blinds us to the evil that may be done by people who are otherwise charming. In this book, the boyfriend, Connor, is not just possessive, impulsive, and violent. He is at times depressed and needy; he is at other times sweet and understanding. He is not only a perpetrator of violence, but a victim. In other words, he is fully realized. If he were a full-time monster, he would be easy for Ann to walk away from. Instead, Ann has to sort through the complexities of her own needs, and to decide whether the forces that draw her to Connor can survive the pain of being with him. She starts out with a notion that her love can fix him, and that notion is severely challenged.
In the end, while Connor's behavior is explained by the author, it is not excused, and this is Ann's story, with Ann's decision to make.
source of recommended read: bought
But I Love Him, by Amanda Grace. This contemporary YA novel starts with Ann, who has just been beaten by her boyfriend, and unfolds in reverse chronological order over the year she has been involved with him. How did she, a college-bound student with friends and an interest in sports, change into a girl whose whole world revolved around one person? And when did it change from something lovely and exciting into a relationship ruled by fear and regret? This book shows that there is no one moment when such changes occur, but rather there are threads and complications. There are good times that keep the main character hooked even when the bad times get worse. And most of all, Ann stays because of her intense sense of being needed.
I applaud the author for not painting the abusive boyfriend as an unrelieved villain. I've never been a big fan of making any single character an embodiment of evil. I think that dividing people into a binary world of good-or-evil not only allows us to demonize some, but also blinds us to the evil that may be done by people who are otherwise charming. In this book, the boyfriend, Connor, is not just possessive, impulsive, and violent. He is at times depressed and needy; he is at other times sweet and understanding. He is not only a perpetrator of violence, but a victim. In other words, he is fully realized. If he were a full-time monster, he would be easy for Ann to walk away from. Instead, Ann has to sort through the complexities of her own needs, and to decide whether the forces that draw her to Connor can survive the pain of being with him. She starts out with a notion that her love can fix him, and that notion is severely challenged.
In the end, while Connor's behavior is explained by the author, it is not excused, and this is Ann's story, with Ann's decision to make.
source of recommended read: bought
July 17, 2011
Idealism
The discussion of John Updike's classic short story "A & P" over at Three Guys One Book got me thinking about that story. It's a rather straightforward* narrative in which Sammy, a young grocery-store employee, quits his job after watching his boss berate three young women who have dared to come into the supermarket in their bathing suits. (And yes, it is steeped in the narrator's longing for the girls.)
The reactions to this story generally seem to fall into two camps: either the reader buys into the main character's worldview and sees his final gesture as important (if not noble), somehow necessary and inevitable; or the reader doesn't identify with the character and sees Sammy as shallow/ pitching an unnecessary hissy fit.
I fall somewhere in the middle. That is, I think Sammy sees his gesture as important, and yet I think the story ends not with triumph, nor with a shrug, but with dread. With regret--not that he quit his job, but that he lives in a world that will not reward him for quitting his job. That's always how I've seen the story, and in rereading it, I think the last line bears out this interpretation:
"... my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter."
People often talk about how wonderful it is that young people are idealistic, at the same time they are desperately trying to cure them of that idealism, for fear they won't survive otherwise. And to me, this struggle between the nobility of idealism and the practical notions of survival--i.e., the acceptance that you may have to do things you don't agree with in order to put food on the table--is one of the central struggles of adolescence. It's one of many reasons I love to write and read young-adult literature.
*Straightforward in style, that is. People certainly find depth in it, and argue over its meaning, but my point is that its structure and narrative line are not experimental in style.
The reactions to this story generally seem to fall into two camps: either the reader buys into the main character's worldview and sees his final gesture as important (if not noble), somehow necessary and inevitable; or the reader doesn't identify with the character and sees Sammy as shallow/ pitching an unnecessary hissy fit.
I fall somewhere in the middle. That is, I think Sammy sees his gesture as important, and yet I think the story ends not with triumph, nor with a shrug, but with dread. With regret--not that he quit his job, but that he lives in a world that will not reward him for quitting his job. That's always how I've seen the story, and in rereading it, I think the last line bears out this interpretation:
"... my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter."
People often talk about how wonderful it is that young people are idealistic, at the same time they are desperately trying to cure them of that idealism, for fear they won't survive otherwise. And to me, this struggle between the nobility of idealism and the practical notions of survival--i.e., the acceptance that you may have to do things you don't agree with in order to put food on the table--is one of the central struggles of adolescence. It's one of many reasons I love to write and read young-adult literature.
*Straightforward in style, that is. People certainly find depth in it, and argue over its meaning, but my point is that its structure and narrative line are not experimental in style.
Idealism
The discussion of John Updike's classic short story "A & P" over at Three Guys One Book got me thinking about that story. It's a rather straightforward* narrative in which Sammy, a young grocery-store employee, quits his job after watching his boss berate three young women who have dared to come into the supermarket in their bathing suits. (And yes, it is steeped in the narrator's longing for the girls.)
The reactions to this story generally seem to fall into two camps: either the reader buys into the main character's worldview and sees his final gesture as important (if not noble), somehow necessary and inevitable; or the reader doesn't identify with the character and sees Sammy as shallow/ pitching an unnecessary hissy fit.
I fall somewhere in the middle. That is, I think Sammy sees his gesture as important, and yet I think the story ends not with triumph, nor with a shrug, but with dread. With regret--not that he quit his job, but that he lives in a world that will not reward him for quitting his job. That's always how I've seen the story, and in rereading it, I think the last line bears out this interpretation:
"... my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter."
People often talk about how wonderful it is that young people are idealistic, at the same time they are desperately trying to cure them of that idealism, for fear they won't survive otherwise. And to me, this struggle between the nobility of idealism and the practical notions of survival--i.e., the acceptance that you may have to do things you don't agree with in order to put food on the table--is one of the central struggles of adolescence. It's one of many reasons I love to write and read young-adult literature.
*Straightforward in style, that is. People certainly find depth in it, and argue over its meaning, but my point is that its structure and narrative line are not experimental in style.
The reactions to this story generally seem to fall into two camps: either the reader buys into the main character's worldview and sees his final gesture as important (if not noble), somehow necessary and inevitable; or the reader doesn't identify with the character and sees Sammy as shallow/ pitching an unnecessary hissy fit.
I fall somewhere in the middle. That is, I think Sammy sees his gesture as important, and yet I think the story ends not with triumph, nor with a shrug, but with dread. With regret--not that he quit his job, but that he lives in a world that will not reward him for quitting his job. That's always how I've seen the story, and in rereading it, I think the last line bears out this interpretation:
"... my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter."
People often talk about how wonderful it is that young people are idealistic, at the same time they are desperately trying to cure them of that idealism, for fear they won't survive otherwise. And to me, this struggle between the nobility of idealism and the practical notions of survival--i.e., the acceptance that you may have to do things you don't agree with in order to put food on the table--is one of the central struggles of adolescence. It's one of many reasons I love to write and read young-adult literature.
*Straightforward in style, that is. People certainly find depth in it, and argue over its meaning, but my point is that its structure and narrative line are not experimental in style.
Poetry reading
Last night, I went to a poetry reading because Kelly Fineman was the featured reader. I enjoyed Kelly's poems, as I always do, from the humorous spin on Robert Frost to the serious poems about changes in her life. I was tickled when she read a poem that came from our excursion to the Fine Arts Museum back in the spring. I've always admired her wordsmithing, and her skill at using strict forms (e.g., sonnets) to explore possibilities rather than limitations. Last night I also noticed her conciseness: no poem ever seemed to be a single word longer than it should have been.
Aside from her talents as a poet, Kelly also knows how to structure a reading, alternating runs of darker poems with lighter poems, and building to a final poem and a final line that were natural sparks for applause. The ability to choose the right poem to end with was a skill also displayed by other poets who read later in the evening.
I found something to like in all the poets' work, but aside from Kelly, the other reader whose work I found the most compelling was Anna Evans. Although the audience seemed to respond most strongly to a forceful poem about sexual harassment, I was generally enchanted with her careful attention to every word in every poem--even down to a description of handbags that compared their colors to flavors.
Whenever I'm at a reading, or a concert, or any similar event, it always strikes me that this is humanity at its best: people coming together to create, to share. There is so much violence and apathy in this world, but when I see people pour their energy into art and community, it gives me hope.
Aside from her talents as a poet, Kelly also knows how to structure a reading, alternating runs of darker poems with lighter poems, and building to a final poem and a final line that were natural sparks for applause. The ability to choose the right poem to end with was a skill also displayed by other poets who read later in the evening.
I found something to like in all the poets' work, but aside from Kelly, the other reader whose work I found the most compelling was Anna Evans. Although the audience seemed to respond most strongly to a forceful poem about sexual harassment, I was generally enchanted with her careful attention to every word in every poem--even down to a description of handbags that compared their colors to flavors.
Whenever I'm at a reading, or a concert, or any similar event, it always strikes me that this is humanity at its best: people coming together to create, to share. There is so much violence and apathy in this world, but when I see people pour their energy into art and community, it gives me hope.
July 16, 2011
Poetry reading
Last night, I went to a poetry reading because Kelly Fineman was the featured reader. I enjoyed Kelly's poems, as I always do, from the humorous spin on Robert Frost to the serious poems about changes in her life. I was tickled when she read a poem that came from our excursion to the Fine Arts Museum back in the spring. I've always admired her wordsmithing, and her skill at using strict forms (e.g., sonnets) to explore possibilities rather than limitations. Last night I also noticed her conciseness: no poem ever seemed to be a single word longer than it should have been.
Aside from her talents as a poet, Kelly also knows how to structure a reading, alternating runs of darker poems with lighter poems, and building to a final poem and a final line that were natural sparks for applause. The ability to choose the right poem to end with was a skill also displayed by other poets who read later in the evening.
I found something to like in all the poets' work, but aside from Kelly, the other reader whose work I found the most compelling was Anna Evans. Although the audience seemed to respond most strongly to a forceful poem about sexual harassment, I was generally enchanted with her careful attention to every word in every poem--even down to a description of handbags that compared their colors to flavors.
Whenever I'm at a reading, or a concert, or any similar event, it always strikes me that this is humanity at its best: people coming together to create, to share. There is so much violence and apathy in this world, but when I see people pour their energy into art and community, it gives me hope.
Aside from her talents as a poet, Kelly also knows how to structure a reading, alternating runs of darker poems with lighter poems, and building to a final poem and a final line that were natural sparks for applause. The ability to choose the right poem to end with was a skill also displayed by other poets who read later in the evening.
I found something to like in all the poets' work, but aside from Kelly, the other reader whose work I found the most compelling was Anna Evans. Although the audience seemed to respond most strongly to a forceful poem about sexual harassment, I was generally enchanted with her careful attention to every word in every poem--even down to a description of handbags that compared their colors to flavors.
Whenever I'm at a reading, or a concert, or any similar event, it always strikes me that this is humanity at its best: people coming together to create, to share. There is so much violence and apathy in this world, but when I see people pour their energy into art and community, it gives me hope.
