Christina Morland's Blog, page 3
February 12, 2020
#OHG (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl)
Happy February 12! I always love this day; it was my grandmother's birthday--and Abraham Lincoln's, too!
Completely unrelated--except that my grandmother liked to jump from topic to topic without a good segue, and who knows, perhaps Lincoln did, too--I wanted to share a little something I've been working on. This excerpt features Elizabeth, Darcy, and a bad pun.
Stay tuned...more info on February 18. Hope you enjoy!
~
“Mr. Darcy!” she shouted, breaking into a run. She abhorred her total want of pride―to race after any man, even one she loved, represented a low point, for sure. Yet for all that she had dreaded their quarrel, she feared his silence more. Storms inflicted damage, but droughts choked the life out of everything.
He called out—but not to her. “John, my horse.”
Everything in that moment conspired against her: the bitter chill in the air; his refusal to acknowledge her; the utter lack of distress in his voice, as if he were preparing for a leisurely ride across the grounds, rather than an escape from his quarrelsome betrothed. Still, she would have kept her tears at bay had it not been for one minor detail: he had addressed Longbourn’s groom by name. Even Mr. Bingley, kind and affable Mr. Bingley, tended to fall back on “You there!” when calling for his horse.
Elizabeth swiped angrily at her eyes. She did not understand Fitzwilliam Darcy, not at all! He was, by turns, cold and warm, kind and aloof, reticent and garrulous. And then there were all those odd details that confounded categorization: he often turned his head just before smiling, as if worried that others might see; he could not sit for more than a quarter of an hour in idle conversation, yet could spend the entirety of a rainy afternoon teaching Kitty and Mary to play chess; he brought her no gifts, wrote her no love letters, and paid her few compliments, except the compliment of attention.
He also knew the name of every servant at Longbourn. Granted, there were only five, if one did not include the woman they hired on occasion to help with the laundry. (“Though I suppose you know her name, too,” Elizabeth had teased after discovering he knew the names of all the others. “Tess,” he had replied—correctly.)
There was nothing particularly laudable in his ability to recite these names. Indeed, she was tempted to interpret this knowledge as an extension of his pride, for as he himself had put it, “Longbourn, and all who live here, are now of great importance to me.” The sentiment was at once romantic and ruthless: one either existed in the Darcy orbit—or was consigned to the invisibility of the ether.
As he followed John into the stables, Elizabeth knew, if she was ever to maintain her own center of gravity, that she could not allow him to take flight now.
He was just mounting his horse when she came striding in after him. Oh, why could they not have resolved their differences over a fragrant cup of tea, seated next to a crackling fire, instead of out of doors, where she could see her own breath and smell only horse manure?
At her arrival, he paused in his preparations but did not look down at her.
“John,” she said, her gaze fixed on her betrothed, “I would speak to Mr. Darcy alone.”
“The reins, John,” said Darcy.
She saw, out of the corner of her eye, how the servant glanced between the two of them.
Had she possessed less self-restraint—had she been more like her mother or Lydia—she might have snapped at both men, reminding them that John had known her longer and therefore had no cause to consider Mr. Darcy’s wishes over her own. Had she possessed more self-restraint—had she been more like Jane—she would have snapped at no one at all.
As it was, she was Elizabeth—and so possessed only enough self-restraint to keep from snapping at John.
“Oh, come down off your high horse, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and talk to me!”
Completely unrelated--except that my grandmother liked to jump from topic to topic without a good segue, and who knows, perhaps Lincoln did, too--I wanted to share a little something I've been working on. This excerpt features Elizabeth, Darcy, and a bad pun.
Stay tuned...more info on February 18. Hope you enjoy!
~
“Mr. Darcy!” she shouted, breaking into a run. She abhorred her total want of pride―to race after any man, even one she loved, represented a low point, for sure. Yet for all that she had dreaded their quarrel, she feared his silence more. Storms inflicted damage, but droughts choked the life out of everything.
He called out—but not to her. “John, my horse.”
Everything in that moment conspired against her: the bitter chill in the air; his refusal to acknowledge her; the utter lack of distress in his voice, as if he were preparing for a leisurely ride across the grounds, rather than an escape from his quarrelsome betrothed. Still, she would have kept her tears at bay had it not been for one minor detail: he had addressed Longbourn’s groom by name. Even Mr. Bingley, kind and affable Mr. Bingley, tended to fall back on “You there!” when calling for his horse.
Elizabeth swiped angrily at her eyes. She did not understand Fitzwilliam Darcy, not at all! He was, by turns, cold and warm, kind and aloof, reticent and garrulous. And then there were all those odd details that confounded categorization: he often turned his head just before smiling, as if worried that others might see; he could not sit for more than a quarter of an hour in idle conversation, yet could spend the entirety of a rainy afternoon teaching Kitty and Mary to play chess; he brought her no gifts, wrote her no love letters, and paid her few compliments, except the compliment of attention.
He also knew the name of every servant at Longbourn. Granted, there were only five, if one did not include the woman they hired on occasion to help with the laundry. (“Though I suppose you know her name, too,” Elizabeth had teased after discovering he knew the names of all the others. “Tess,” he had replied—correctly.)
There was nothing particularly laudable in his ability to recite these names. Indeed, she was tempted to interpret this knowledge as an extension of his pride, for as he himself had put it, “Longbourn, and all who live here, are now of great importance to me.” The sentiment was at once romantic and ruthless: one either existed in the Darcy orbit—or was consigned to the invisibility of the ether.
As he followed John into the stables, Elizabeth knew, if she was ever to maintain her own center of gravity, that she could not allow him to take flight now.
He was just mounting his horse when she came striding in after him. Oh, why could they not have resolved their differences over a fragrant cup of tea, seated next to a crackling fire, instead of out of doors, where she could see her own breath and smell only horse manure?
At her arrival, he paused in his preparations but did not look down at her.
“John,” she said, her gaze fixed on her betrothed, “I would speak to Mr. Darcy alone.”
“The reins, John,” said Darcy.
She saw, out of the corner of her eye, how the servant glanced between the two of them.
Had she possessed less self-restraint—had she been more like her mother or Lydia—she might have snapped at both men, reminding them that John had known her longer and therefore had no cause to consider Mr. Darcy’s wishes over her own. Had she possessed more self-restraint—had she been more like Jane—she would have snapped at no one at all.
As it was, she was Elizabeth—and so possessed only enough self-restraint to keep from snapping at John.
“Oh, come down off your high horse, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and talk to me!”
February 9, 2020
Consistently Inconsistent
Do you know how many half-filled journals I have stashed away in drawers, on shelves, in storage boxes around my house? Yeah, I don't either.
And half-filled is rather optimistic; More journals than not have the first three pages dutifully completed; the rest of the pages are blank, waiting for that day when I'm desperate for a clean sheet of paper, or for when I'm angry or sad or jubilant enough to scratch out a few navel-gazing lines, or for when I've made yet another New Year's resolution, another promise that this time will be different.
Well, this Goodread's blog is no different, that's for sure! I had such good intentions of keeping this space updated. What can I say? I'm consistently inconsistent.
So here I am again. And it's not even the day after New Year's!
Maybe it's because the birds are chirping, despite the frigid temperatures; or maybe it's because I'm struggling to write a scene in my never-ending fourth novel, and I figured writing in this blog would be more fun.
Most likely, I'm blogging today because it's the 23rd anniversary of my first date with my husband, and he, in his aged wisdom, suggested I blog more consistently. Well, we think we went on our first date on February 9, 1997. It might have been February 8. Or February 12. It was definitely before Valentine's Day. And it was definitely in 1997 when we were both 19. Nineteen! Who were those people we once were?
Maybe I should fish out one of my old journals and figure it out, eh?
To any of you out there reading this blog: do you keep journals? If so, what compels you to keep them up--or do you find yourself dipping in and out of them like I do?
Happy February to you all!
And half-filled is rather optimistic; More journals than not have the first three pages dutifully completed; the rest of the pages are blank, waiting for that day when I'm desperate for a clean sheet of paper, or for when I'm angry or sad or jubilant enough to scratch out a few navel-gazing lines, or for when I've made yet another New Year's resolution, another promise that this time will be different.
Well, this Goodread's blog is no different, that's for sure! I had such good intentions of keeping this space updated. What can I say? I'm consistently inconsistent.
So here I am again. And it's not even the day after New Year's!
Maybe it's because the birds are chirping, despite the frigid temperatures; or maybe it's because I'm struggling to write a scene in my never-ending fourth novel, and I figured writing in this blog would be more fun.
Most likely, I'm blogging today because it's the 23rd anniversary of my first date with my husband, and he, in his aged wisdom, suggested I blog more consistently. Well, we think we went on our first date on February 9, 1997. It might have been February 8. Or February 12. It was definitely before Valentine's Day. And it was definitely in 1997 when we were both 19. Nineteen! Who were those people we once were?
Maybe I should fish out one of my old journals and figure it out, eh?
To any of you out there reading this blog: do you keep journals? If so, what compels you to keep them up--or do you find yourself dipping in and out of them like I do?
Happy February to you all!
April 24, 2019
Elizabeth or Darcy...or Both?
Greetings, and happy spring or autumn depending on which hemisphere you call home! (And if you live near the equator and enjoy tropical weather all year round, happy you!)
Starting with questions again:
1.) Whose story is Pride and Prejudice? Is it mainly Elizabeth’s story, or is it Darcy’s story, too?
2.) If you read Pride and Prejudice variations, do you prefer reading from Elizabeth’s perspective or Darcy’s? Both? Another character’s perspective?
I’m about halfway through The Making of Jane Austen, and author Devoney Looser has just blown my mind. Chapter Five examines theatrical adaptations of Pride and Prejudice from the late 1890s through the mid-1930s. What Looser found is this: Pride and Prejudice theatricals from the late 1890s focused largely on Elizabeth as a character—and these adaptations were largely written, directed, and performed by women. In these productions, Elizabeth was witty and dymanic; she was the main focus in the script and on the stage.
Darcy was much less important, sometimes hardly appearing on stage; some of these plays were really selected scenes from the novel, and many of these scenes focused on Elizabeth rejecting Collins or telling off Lady Catherine. When Darcy did appear, he was secondary—and somewhat comic with his exaggerated snobbery. The audience, in other words, experienced the story mainly through Elizabeth’s perspective, and like Elizabeth, they saw Darcy as a complete jerk, at least until he reforms himself.
But by the late 1920s and 1930s, the character of Darcy gains prominence and popularity, and in the most popular stage production of Pride and Prejudice, a Broadway production written by Helen Jerome and staged in the mid-1930s, Darcy becomes a heart throb and the star of the show. As Looser puts it, audiences “were encouraged to empathize with Darcy’s thwarted desires and to enjoy watching them be fulfilled....”(Devoney Looser, The Making of Jane Austen, 110). This Darcy—the first major example of Darcy as heart throb—is the precursor to Laurence Oliver’s film Darcy in 1940, and Oliver’s Darcy is the precursor to Colin Firth’s portrayal in 1995. Yes, that’s right: Firth’s wet-shirt scene isn’t the first time viewers saw Darcy as sexy!
While this shift to a more dynamic Darcy provided a better role for male actors, it also had an effect on how audiences viewed Elizabeth. In Jerome’s Broadway production, Elizabeth was portrayed as “weepy” and actually told Darcy, during that second proposal scene, “I am abased.” The actress portraying Elizabeth was to speak this line with her “head bowed” (109).
Whoa!
In other words, between 1890 and 1940, the dominant visual representation of Elizabeth shifts from strong and witty to weepy and abased—while Darcy goes from stiff and snobby to passionate and multifaceted.
While I love a sexy and sympathetic Darcy, I found myself mourning the loss of a strong Elizabeth Bennet.
This got me thinking about perspective—and how we tell stories. Many Pride and Prejudice variations, my own included, are told at least partially from Darcy’s perspective. In giving so much space to Darcy, are we losing something of Elizabeth Bennet?
I’d love to know your thoughts!
Starting with questions again:
1.) Whose story is Pride and Prejudice? Is it mainly Elizabeth’s story, or is it Darcy’s story, too?
2.) If you read Pride and Prejudice variations, do you prefer reading from Elizabeth’s perspective or Darcy’s? Both? Another character’s perspective?
I’m about halfway through The Making of Jane Austen, and author Devoney Looser has just blown my mind. Chapter Five examines theatrical adaptations of Pride and Prejudice from the late 1890s through the mid-1930s. What Looser found is this: Pride and Prejudice theatricals from the late 1890s focused largely on Elizabeth as a character—and these adaptations were largely written, directed, and performed by women. In these productions, Elizabeth was witty and dymanic; she was the main focus in the script and on the stage.
Darcy was much less important, sometimes hardly appearing on stage; some of these plays were really selected scenes from the novel, and many of these scenes focused on Elizabeth rejecting Collins or telling off Lady Catherine. When Darcy did appear, he was secondary—and somewhat comic with his exaggerated snobbery. The audience, in other words, experienced the story mainly through Elizabeth’s perspective, and like Elizabeth, they saw Darcy as a complete jerk, at least until he reforms himself.
But by the late 1920s and 1930s, the character of Darcy gains prominence and popularity, and in the most popular stage production of Pride and Prejudice, a Broadway production written by Helen Jerome and staged in the mid-1930s, Darcy becomes a heart throb and the star of the show. As Looser puts it, audiences “were encouraged to empathize with Darcy’s thwarted desires and to enjoy watching them be fulfilled....”(Devoney Looser, The Making of Jane Austen, 110). This Darcy—the first major example of Darcy as heart throb—is the precursor to Laurence Oliver’s film Darcy in 1940, and Oliver’s Darcy is the precursor to Colin Firth’s portrayal in 1995. Yes, that’s right: Firth’s wet-shirt scene isn’t the first time viewers saw Darcy as sexy!
While this shift to a more dynamic Darcy provided a better role for male actors, it also had an effect on how audiences viewed Elizabeth. In Jerome’s Broadway production, Elizabeth was portrayed as “weepy” and actually told Darcy, during that second proposal scene, “I am abased.” The actress portraying Elizabeth was to speak this line with her “head bowed” (109).
Whoa!
In other words, between 1890 and 1940, the dominant visual representation of Elizabeth shifts from strong and witty to weepy and abased—while Darcy goes from stiff and snobby to passionate and multifaceted.
While I love a sexy and sympathetic Darcy, I found myself mourning the loss of a strong Elizabeth Bennet.
This got me thinking about perspective—and how we tell stories. Many Pride and Prejudice variations, my own included, are told at least partially from Darcy’s perspective. In giving so much space to Darcy, are we losing something of Elizabeth Bennet?
I’d love to know your thoughts!
March 1, 2019
Identity and Meaning in Austenesque Fiction
Happy March!
Teacher that I am, I'm going to begin this post with some questions. If you have the time and interest, consider the questions before you read my rambling thoughts. Then, if you have even more time and interest, I'd love to hear what you think!
The questions are not exactly related to each other -- but they're questions inspired by some recent reading:
1.) How much does an author's identity impact her or his writing? I'm thinking along the lines of gender, race, nationality, religion, sexual orientation -- but you could consider any form of identity that you find significant in your life.
2.) What, beyond borrowing Austen's characters and plot, makes a story "Austenesque?" Can Austenesque fiction ever stray too far from the source material to be considered truly "Austenesque?" (Please don't list specific books or authors here that you think don't work; I'm not looking to bash anyone's writing. Rather, tell me about general tropes or techniques that you think change a work from Austenesque to something else.)
--
Part of the reason I've been thinking of these questions: I had a chance recently to read two great Austenesque novels by male authors (Don Jacobson's The Keeper: Mary Bennet's Extraordinary Journey and Mark Brownlow's Cake and Courtship). Perhaps it shouldn't matter that the authors are male -- and yet I did find myself wondering how it might feel to be a male author in one of the few genres dominated by females.
I enjoyed both novels immensely, and I especially appreciated how different they were from any other Austenesque fiction I've read. These books were certainly different from what I write. But is that just because we're all different people? Or does gender greatly impact how we write?
I suppose the answer to both these questions is yes. Surely all of our life experiences shape how we write and read, which means gender is important--but so are many other factors, as well. Indeed, I'm glad to see more Austenesque novels from authors of colors and authors who hail from nations that aren't the UK or US. (Personally looking forward to reading Pride, Unmarriageable, and Austenistan!)
I believe the varied experiences of authors writing in the Austenesque genre today enrich our appreciation for and love of Austen's original novels.
It's a real testament to Jane Austen's work that her novels cross the boundaries we humans like to set up for ourselves. I also find it beautiful that authors are celebrating unique perspectives by placing our favorite Austen characters in situations Austen herself could never have imagined.
This does lead to a question, however: can Austenesque fiction ever stray too far from the original source material to remain Austenesque?
For me, there needs to be only one constant in Austenesque fiction: the element of self-discovery. Austen's novels are not, in my mind, Regency romances (though I love that genre) -- but instead books that address a universal desire to understand ourselves better. So when I see Austenesque fiction doing that -- no matter who's writing it or how they're changing the setting or context -- I feel a great sense of kinship.
So, what do you think?
(I'd just ask, ever so humbly, that any comments steer clear of criticizing specific authors or books. The one exception -- feel free to leave negative feedback on my own books, as this is my blog, and by writing here, I'm inviting that feedback. Thanks!)
Teacher that I am, I'm going to begin this post with some questions. If you have the time and interest, consider the questions before you read my rambling thoughts. Then, if you have even more time and interest, I'd love to hear what you think!
The questions are not exactly related to each other -- but they're questions inspired by some recent reading:
1.) How much does an author's identity impact her or his writing? I'm thinking along the lines of gender, race, nationality, religion, sexual orientation -- but you could consider any form of identity that you find significant in your life.
2.) What, beyond borrowing Austen's characters and plot, makes a story "Austenesque?" Can Austenesque fiction ever stray too far from the source material to be considered truly "Austenesque?" (Please don't list specific books or authors here that you think don't work; I'm not looking to bash anyone's writing. Rather, tell me about general tropes or techniques that you think change a work from Austenesque to something else.)
--
Part of the reason I've been thinking of these questions: I had a chance recently to read two great Austenesque novels by male authors (Don Jacobson's The Keeper: Mary Bennet's Extraordinary Journey and Mark Brownlow's Cake and Courtship). Perhaps it shouldn't matter that the authors are male -- and yet I did find myself wondering how it might feel to be a male author in one of the few genres dominated by females.
I enjoyed both novels immensely, and I especially appreciated how different they were from any other Austenesque fiction I've read. These books were certainly different from what I write. But is that just because we're all different people? Or does gender greatly impact how we write?
I suppose the answer to both these questions is yes. Surely all of our life experiences shape how we write and read, which means gender is important--but so are many other factors, as well. Indeed, I'm glad to see more Austenesque novels from authors of colors and authors who hail from nations that aren't the UK or US. (Personally looking forward to reading Pride, Unmarriageable, and Austenistan!)
I believe the varied experiences of authors writing in the Austenesque genre today enrich our appreciation for and love of Austen's original novels.
It's a real testament to Jane Austen's work that her novels cross the boundaries we humans like to set up for ourselves. I also find it beautiful that authors are celebrating unique perspectives by placing our favorite Austen characters in situations Austen herself could never have imagined.
This does lead to a question, however: can Austenesque fiction ever stray too far from the original source material to remain Austenesque?
For me, there needs to be only one constant in Austenesque fiction: the element of self-discovery. Austen's novels are not, in my mind, Regency romances (though I love that genre) -- but instead books that address a universal desire to understand ourselves better. So when I see Austenesque fiction doing that -- no matter who's writing it or how they're changing the setting or context -- I feel a great sense of kinship.
So, what do you think?
(I'd just ask, ever so humbly, that any comments steer clear of criticizing specific authors or books. The one exception -- feel free to leave negative feedback on my own books, as this is my blog, and by writing here, I'm inviting that feedback. Thanks!)
January 28, 2019
Eliza Williams and Willoughby’s “Pangs”
After finishing my reread of Sense and Sensibility, I’ve been thinking a great deal about Eliza Williams, the character who doesn’t get a happy ending. This post raises more questions than answers—and contains spoilers, for anyone out there who doesn’t already know the story...
Why in the world does Austen give us any reason to feel “pangs” for Willoughby? Twice near the end of the novel, Austen uses that word in reference to the blackguard:
1. Chapter 45, just after Willoughby’s confession to Elinor:
“Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend [Colonel Brandon], and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.”
2. Chapter 50, as the novel wraps up: “Willoughby could not hear of [Marianne’s] marriage without a pang...”
I know this is my modern “sensibility” talking, but shouldn’t we feel more of a pang for Eliza Williams? She was but sixteen when she met Willoughby, and though Willoughby tries to place some blame on the “violence of [Eliza’s] passions, the weakness of her understanding,” even he recognizes that he was largely at fault for her seduction (Chapter 44).
So, a few questions, readers:
1. Why do you think Austen has Elinor come to feel a little sorry for Willoughby after he comes to see her?
2. Do you feel sorry for Willoughby? (It’s pretty clear I don’t—but if you disagree, I’d love to hear your opinion!)
3. What responsibility does Eliza Williams hold in her own fall? (And is she any different, in your mind, from Pride and Prejudice’s Georgiana Darcy or Lydia Bennet, both of whom are also threatened by seduction and scandal, though they are able to escape ruin thanks to Darcy.)
I’d love to hear your thoughts! In the meantime, happy reading to you.
Why in the world does Austen give us any reason to feel “pangs” for Willoughby? Twice near the end of the novel, Austen uses that word in reference to the blackguard:
1. Chapter 45, just after Willoughby’s confession to Elinor:
“Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend [Colonel Brandon], and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.”
2. Chapter 50, as the novel wraps up: “Willoughby could not hear of [Marianne’s] marriage without a pang...”
I know this is my modern “sensibility” talking, but shouldn’t we feel more of a pang for Eliza Williams? She was but sixteen when she met Willoughby, and though Willoughby tries to place some blame on the “violence of [Eliza’s] passions, the weakness of her understanding,” even he recognizes that he was largely at fault for her seduction (Chapter 44).
So, a few questions, readers:
1. Why do you think Austen has Elinor come to feel a little sorry for Willoughby after he comes to see her?
2. Do you feel sorry for Willoughby? (It’s pretty clear I don’t—but if you disagree, I’d love to hear your opinion!)
3. What responsibility does Eliza Williams hold in her own fall? (And is she any different, in your mind, from Pride and Prejudice’s Georgiana Darcy or Lydia Bennet, both of whom are also threatened by seduction and scandal, though they are able to escape ruin thanks to Darcy.)
I’d love to hear your thoughts! In the meantime, happy reading to you.
January 16, 2019
Hidden Depths
As I return to writing a Sense and Sensibility variation I began writing a few years back, I have also returned to the original source material. It doesn't matter how many times I reread Sense and Sensibility; I always find so much to admire about this novel. In particular, I love the wit Austen uses to poke fun at so many of the characters, "good" and "bad." (Indeed, I think the only character she spares is Elinor.)
Today, when I reached the scene in which Willoughby takes his unexpected leave from Barton, I was struck by the conversation between Elinor and her mother. Mrs. Dashwood is chiding her daughter for being skeptical of Willoughby's motives for departing. She wants to give this young man they have all come to love the benefit of the doubt, but sensible, skeptical Elinor raises the possibility of something not being quite right in Willoughby's behavior. In particular, she wonders at his lack of transparency in explaining why he must leave without any fixed plans to return. "Secrecy," she tells her mother, "may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him" (Chapter 15).
What I love about this line is that Elinor is not distressed by secrecy in general, more the practice of it by someone who had previously seemed so very open and transparent. It is the alteration in Willoughby's behavior, not the behavior itself, that troubles Elinor.
Austen's use of character transformation is, of course, one of the reasons so many of us love her writing. She loves to upend the expectations of her protagonists (and readers) by making certain affable characters (Wickham, Willoughby) seem open, only to show they are really hiding dark secrets--and likewise to make other, more reserved characters (Darcy, Brandon) possess hidden depths of feeling and honor that their initial reserve seems to mask.
My questions for you:
1.) Does she do this with only male characters, or can you think of female characters who upend our expectations in this same way?
2.) Are there modern, real-life equivalences to this idea of "hidden depths"? Or do you think this is more of a literary device than a realistic depiction of humans?
Happy reading--and if you're somewhere cold and dreary (like I am), may you find a little sunshine and warmth in coming days!
Today, when I reached the scene in which Willoughby takes his unexpected leave from Barton, I was struck by the conversation between Elinor and her mother. Mrs. Dashwood is chiding her daughter for being skeptical of Willoughby's motives for departing. She wants to give this young man they have all come to love the benefit of the doubt, but sensible, skeptical Elinor raises the possibility of something not being quite right in Willoughby's behavior. In particular, she wonders at his lack of transparency in explaining why he must leave without any fixed plans to return. "Secrecy," she tells her mother, "may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him" (Chapter 15).
What I love about this line is that Elinor is not distressed by secrecy in general, more the practice of it by someone who had previously seemed so very open and transparent. It is the alteration in Willoughby's behavior, not the behavior itself, that troubles Elinor.
Austen's use of character transformation is, of course, one of the reasons so many of us love her writing. She loves to upend the expectations of her protagonists (and readers) by making certain affable characters (Wickham, Willoughby) seem open, only to show they are really hiding dark secrets--and likewise to make other, more reserved characters (Darcy, Brandon) possess hidden depths of feeling and honor that their initial reserve seems to mask.
My questions for you:
1.) Does she do this with only male characters, or can you think of female characters who upend our expectations in this same way?
2.) Are there modern, real-life equivalences to this idea of "hidden depths"? Or do you think this is more of a literary device than a realistic depiction of humans?
Happy reading--and if you're somewhere cold and dreary (like I am), may you find a little sunshine and warmth in coming days!
January 13, 2019
Short Stories, Novellas, and Novels -- Oh, My!
These past few weeks, I've been enjoying the transition from writing (or really editing) mode to reading mode. In shifting gears, I've been thinking about the differences between short stories, novellas, and novels.
While length or word count is an obvious differentiator, I've been wondering about how this structural element impacts the nature of the story being told. Is a short story really just a short novel, or is it fundamentally different? And what the heck is a novella, anyway? Is it an adolescent--always stuck between short story and novel--or does it, too, have a fundamentally different function?
Over the summer, I had the good fortune to write a short story for Christina Boyd's Rational Creatures anthology, and this winter, I finally managed to finish a very long (some might argue far too long!) novel. For me, both forms were venues for exploring characters I loved--but in the case of short story about Elinor Dashwood, I had to focus on highlighting one particular characteristic, whereas in the novel, I was able to show change over time.
As a writer, I have gravitated toward the novel (probably because I'm so darn wordy), but the experience of writing short stories, especially Elinor Dashwood's tale in Rational Creatures, really forced me to think about what I considered essential to a character. And as a reader, I'm growing to love the short story form more and more, particularly after reading some of my colleagues' work in the anthology.
Do you have a favorite format (short story, novella, or novel)? What, in your mind, separates the three forms? And does anyone have any good suggestions for novellas to read? I don't have much experience with the form...
(And for those of you looking to read more short stories, I would highly recommend Rational Creatures..not that I'm biased or anything!)
Happy reading to everyone!
While length or word count is an obvious differentiator, I've been wondering about how this structural element impacts the nature of the story being told. Is a short story really just a short novel, or is it fundamentally different? And what the heck is a novella, anyway? Is it an adolescent--always stuck between short story and novel--or does it, too, have a fundamentally different function?
Over the summer, I had the good fortune to write a short story for Christina Boyd's Rational Creatures anthology, and this winter, I finally managed to finish a very long (some might argue far too long!) novel. For me, both forms were venues for exploring characters I loved--but in the case of short story about Elinor Dashwood, I had to focus on highlighting one particular characteristic, whereas in the novel, I was able to show change over time.
As a writer, I have gravitated toward the novel (probably because I'm so darn wordy), but the experience of writing short stories, especially Elinor Dashwood's tale in Rational Creatures, really forced me to think about what I considered essential to a character. And as a reader, I'm growing to love the short story form more and more, particularly after reading some of my colleagues' work in the anthology.
Do you have a favorite format (short story, novella, or novel)? What, in your mind, separates the three forms? And does anyone have any good suggestions for novellas to read? I don't have much experience with the form...
(And for those of you looking to read more short stories, I would highly recommend Rational Creatures..not that I'm biased or anything!)
Happy reading to everyone!
December 31, 2018
Here I come, 2019!
Happy New Year, everyone!
I'm making it a goal to be more active on Goodreads this year. I was so busy last year with teaching and writing (quite pleasurable ways to be busy) that I didn't keep up with my Goodreads page as I'd meant.
Will 2019 be different? Let's break this down by pros and cons (since I'm in the midst of reading a biography of Ben Franklin, who made great use of pros and cons for deciding on the likelihood of success)...
Pros: I'm not teaching this year, which of course I miss--but means I have more time! Also, I've just finished writing a book, and so I always like to have a good period of reading before diving back into the writing/editing stage of things again.
Cons: I'm notoriously unreliable. Or, I'm reliable at being unreliable?
Hmm, that's a tough call.
Anyway, here I am, and we'll see what happens! What are your reading goals -- not just in terms of numbers, but in terms of kinds of books you'd like to read -- this year?
For me, I have so much great Austenesque fiction to catch up on, and I'd love to read a few good histories and biographies. I always look forward to reading children's lit with my eight-year-old daughter, and I've heard great things about Elena Ferrante's Neapolitan Quartet.
What about you?
I'm making it a goal to be more active on Goodreads this year. I was so busy last year with teaching and writing (quite pleasurable ways to be busy) that I didn't keep up with my Goodreads page as I'd meant.
Will 2019 be different? Let's break this down by pros and cons (since I'm in the midst of reading a biography of Ben Franklin, who made great use of pros and cons for deciding on the likelihood of success)...
Pros: I'm not teaching this year, which of course I miss--but means I have more time! Also, I've just finished writing a book, and so I always like to have a good period of reading before diving back into the writing/editing stage of things again.
Cons: I'm notoriously unreliable. Or, I'm reliable at being unreliable?
Hmm, that's a tough call.
Anyway, here I am, and we'll see what happens! What are your reading goals -- not just in terms of numbers, but in terms of kinds of books you'd like to read -- this year?
For me, I have so much great Austenesque fiction to catch up on, and I'd love to read a few good histories and biographies. I always look forward to reading children's lit with my eight-year-old daughter, and I've heard great things about Elena Ferrante's Neapolitan Quartet.
What about you?
