K.B. Inglee's Blog: The Shepherd's Notes, page 5

The Christmas Story That Isn't

Yesterday I finished my Holiday card. Every year I write a seasonal story, bind it with an appropriate design on the cover, and send it out to a few friends. Three out of four years it is a traditional, feel good, holiday inspired story. Every few years the story come from left field, isn't the least bit holiday related. I wonder if my friends will think I am mad to send such a thing out.

This year is one of those strange works. I had just finished the most difficult story I ever had to write. My holiday story seems like a little piece of that left over in my sub-conscious after I put THE END on "Ticket Out". After I killed Charles.

I have been mulling both of these stories for twenty years. Charles was already dead when I wrote my firs Emily story. I had to make some significant changes to "Ticket Out" to make it fit into the canon. In fact I rearranged the whole incident. In the beginning Charles died of pneumonia after an all-night stakeout in the freezing rain. I was actually quite happy to discard that one for a more violent ending.

My second big problem with the story was that I was so fixated on the death of Charles that I couldn’t seem to find a story to set it in. It was like a fine blood red ruby set in plastic. I had to do something about the plastic if I was going to make a worthwhile bit of reading. It wasn't that I couldn't kill a major character. I couldn't deal with the others, those who loved him and worked with him every day. It was like trying to say something meaningful to a family member at a funeral.

From the first word I wrote about Emily I knew Charles would die in 1890, that she would go to Europe for two years, and that she would return to her childhood home in Cambridge. I also knew that she met Henry James in London and he convinced her to go home.

I have a number of real historical people in my work. They are always secondary, even tertiary, and many are obscure. Henry and William James lived a mile or so from Emily's home on Dana Street. Thomas Wentworth Higginson (mentor to Emily Dickinson, and author of Army Life in a Black Regiment) shows up a couple of times. Harvard President Charles Eliot, Professors James Pierce and his father Benjamin, Louis Agassiz and his wife Elizabeth who ran the school Emily and her sisters attended. I am sure some of you have heard of them.

So when Emily needed the motivation to go home, it would be only right that Henry James would be the one to provide it.

It is the Christmas story that had to be written, with Henry James, Christmas in London, and an unusual gift.

There it is, the little holiday story that shouldn't be.

Just Hit the Key

The hardest thing I did all week was to press the send button on my computer. You wouldn't think it was the least bit hard, after having typed all morning, to hit just one more key.

Was I ready? I wasn't sure I was.

What if I had five characters named Charlotte? There were lots of them in the original. I know there were several to start with. I think there are only two left. Should I make one into Kate (no, that's me) or Dorothy? Allison? Georgette? Charlotte? Oops.

Have I taken out all the periods that are in the wrong place? I found "i.t" instead of "it." How do those things happen??

Should I read the last two stories again? One had been gone over by two editors, but the last by only one.

Will they fail to publish the work because I refused to turn "square piano" into "upright piano"?

Had I spread useless punctuation all over each story? Or taken out some that made the words understandable?

Did I have Christmas in 1888 on the right day? It was a Tuesday that year.

Worst and most frightening of all: am I ready for this? Am I ready to go out and stump for my volume of short stories? This will be the first time I am the sole parent of a book. What if I let the publisher, my relatives, myself down? What if I can't really do the next part? The part that isn't as much fun as writing.

Isn't it bad enough that publishers turn us down so much of the time? Do we have to do it ourselves?

Stop thinking and just hit the key.

Done!

Anyone Remember Whispering Smith?

When I was a kid, I bought every Straight Arrow and Lone Ranger comic book I could afford. I lived for horses and therefore I loved westerns.

Now-a-days I go to comic book stores and there are no westerns. Times change, and while it would be fun to re-read some of things I read as a child, I can't find them anywhere. If I could I think they would still be out of my price range.

Because I have been complaining about this every time my daughter brings home a recent comic, or graphic novel, she bought me a book published in 1906 called Whispering Smith, by Frank Spearman. The illustrations are by NC Wyeth. I remember Whispering Smith, much as I remember many of the early TV westerns, but had to look him up. There was a movie and a TV series. I would not have seen the movie, but I am sure I saw one or two of the TV shows. Nether owed much to the book except for the name of the character.

Frank Spearman was a banker who wrote in his spare time. He published 19 works. Whispering Smith, at least the one in the book, is a railroad detective.
I am enjoying the book but as a writer several thing pop out at me:

The book is mostly telling not showing, as though the narrator was sitting on the rocks outside town writing down everything he sees. Descriptions abound, dialogue is sparse.

There is very little that sets it in time. It is about building and maintaining a railroad in the Rockies. The only indication that this is not set in 1875 is that they have telephones. My own Emily had a telephone put into her boarding house in 1894.

The book is well written and clearly meant to be read by educated people, or to help educate those who read it. Words like 'compelled', and 'stormy interview' abound, and give a depth to the story that would be lost if he had used 'forced' and 'argument'.

I get the feeling that these books were written in a single go. He sat down and wrote it from beginning to end and then sent it to the publisher. This can't possibly be true. I can't think of a single write who does that, though I hear that there are some.

The original cost of the book was $1.50, standard for books in the late 1800 and early 1900s. At some point it was sold used for $10 and marked in pencil "first edition." My daughter paid $5 for it.

When I finish it this book will find a place on my valuable books shelf. Not for its monetary value, but because I love it.
 

Killing Charles

The first words I wrote about Emily Lawrence were written in 1994, and Charles was already dead. He was just someone who found his way into the conversation from time to time. I wrote three novels and part of a fourth. I came up against something in the fourth novel that made me take Charles as a serious character in his own right, not just as a ghostly spouse of my detective.

I knew Charles had died of pneumonia after a stake out in the freezing rain in February 1889. That was fine. I didn't need to fiddle with it. It worked out well as Emily made her way into print in short story form.

While the novels were set AC (After Charles) I was already interested and writing short stories about Emily and Charles and their agency Lawrence Research, in Washington DC.

It was becoming clear that I was going to have to kill Charles on the page and that it couldn't be from pneumonia. It had to be a bullet.

I don't have a count of the Emily short stories or fragments, but it is close to fifty. About a year ago I pulled the best (some published) stories into a collection. Charles must die. Charles must die on the page. Charles death must be in this collection.

So I set about writing the most difficult story I have ever had to write.

I wrote the death scene easily, but putting a story around the scene was another matter. I could put Charles on the ground with a bullet in his head, but when I added Emily on her knees in the wet snow at his side, I just couldn't do it. More than that, I couldn't make it into a story. My personal grief at killing a beloved character, and deeply wounding another, mingled with my desire to be a good story teller and stopped me dead in my tracks.

My first thought was, maybe I don't need a story. Maybe I only need the event stuck between the other stores. I knew at once this was a cop out. There had to be a story.

I needed a beginning and an ending. I needed mundane events for my characters who had no notion what was about to happen.

Finally I bit the bullet (sorry, I couldn't resist), and took all my unstory-like thoughts and wrote them down. Then in a grave (oh, dear) injustice to my critique group I foisted it off on them. I had never before given any group so incomplete a story. I don't remember what they said, but I do remember there were some off the wall suggestions. No one suggested alien abduction, so they seemed to grasp the importance of this story and the difficulty I was having with it.

Maybe it was those off the wall suggestions that helped me put it together. I brought them the completed story the next month. Yes, a real story with a beginning, middle and end, and arc and all those other things writers, but not always readers, know have to happen.

I know part of the trouble was my own involvement in the story. Killing Charles was like killing a member of my family. I had worked with him alive and dead for 20 years, and now I had to write it all down.

The stories in the collection that bring a lump to my throat are not necessarily the best. It is supposed to do that to the reader, not the writer. Writing is emotional, but it is also rational.

Emily and Charles were scientists. They took (take?) solving crimes as rational work. They read the journals, they learn and use such modern ideas as fingerprinting, but they always bring their heart to the case.

I may have killed Charles in a story but he lives on in the hearts and minds of my readers. That's the great thing about writing historicals, your characters never really die.

A Visit to the Colonies

Quite by accident I ran across the most interesting book. OK it wasn’t a real accident. I have, along with many others, an archeologist and historian who helps me with my research. Keith Doms found this book and thought I would like it.

Last week I talked about how a blacksmithing lesson improved my writing. This week is about how the fortune of finding the perfect book helped. Both blogs are also about not being able to write without all those people who help.
The book is called Gentleman's Progress, The Itinerarium of Dr. Alexander Hamilton, 1744, (No not that Hamilton).

Dr. Hamilton lived in Annapolis, Maryland. After a bout of ill health he decided that a nice leisurely ride up the coast would be just the ticket. He kept a journal along the way. In 1948, two hundred years after the trip, Carl Bridenbaugh annotated the work and published it. So I have an old book of an old book.

His traveling companions are delightful. He describes these characters with fond good humor even if he doesn't like them. He finds many to be very verbal about things of which they don't understand.

Conversation is often of politics or religion, with frequent references to the Siege of Canso (I had to look it up, so you can, too). One exception was a group of Quakers in Philadelphia who wanted to discuss the price of flour, maybe from the mill I work at now, which had been selling flour for 40 years.

He tells what they are wearing (what is a laced hat?), what they carry with them, what they eat. I've learned a few new words that you can bet will be in my characters mouths soon.
I am now in the middle of Boston. He keeps putting off his trip to Cambridge because it is either too hot or raining. I am anxious to find out if he meets anyone I know. He has met a few people I know, Mr. Lechmere, for one, and many more I didn't, the painter Mr. Smibertt, who opened the first art gallery in the colonies. He's sure turn up in one of my stories.

This is 20-30 years before the setting of the Thieftaker works of D.B. Jackson. The two authors have similar takes on the city, though one is close up and the other at more of a distance. I will copy the journal pages that describe Boston and fold them into Jackson's books.

So here I am with four book marks and a bunch of post-its. I flip from the maps on the end papers to his journal entries to the foot notes in the back. Then I turn to Wikipedia which is open at my elbow.

1744 isn't a year in which any of my works are set, though it is pretty close to the 1752 setting of my Hannah and Silas stories. Cobbs Crossing, Delaware, is fictional, but the good Doctor stops in New Castle only a few miles away.

I can hardly wait to get to Maine.
 

A New Skill: Blacksmithing

 I had my first lesson in blacksmithing this week. While I don’t want to BE a blacksmith, I want to know what it is LIKE to be one.

While I learn a lot of history from books, you can't beat a good experience. I learn more and make my writing more authentic by doing the things my characters do.

So when the afternoon quieted down I snuck out to the blacksmith shop to give it a try.

Yes, I was supposed to be giving tours of the gristmill, helping people with fishing, walking the ground to talk to people who had come to enjoy the park.
For some reason there were no tours, no fishers, and very few people walking dogs. Jim Neubauer, the blacksmith, came in and invited me out for lesson #1.

I have watched the smith pretty much every week since the Newlin Grist Mill shop has been open on weekends. But seeing it and doing it are very different. Our smiths are all volunteers who do it for love or to have access to a forge. I have seen hinges, nails, dinner bells, forks, even a sword take shape on the anvil. Hooks, every kind of hook imaginable.

Jim had been working at the forge for several hours when I joined him. Everything was ready for me when I got there. The coals were glowing red, the bucket of water used to quench the hot metal was full and waiting.

My job was to make an S-hook.

First Jim showed me how to use the hammer. It moves like a pendulum in a partly open fist. The hammer does the work, not the arm muscles. I’m not sure I did this right, but next time…

What I really wanted to do more than anything was work the bellows. Our bellows look like ones you would find at any fireplace, only huge. To pump them the smith reaches his left hand up to about ear level, grabs a ring and pulls down with a steady force to suck in air, and lets go to send the air into the fire. I am told I will get good enough at this to be able to deliver a steady stream.

I had time to do the first curve on the S-hook. You can see in the photo the curved end as well as the unfinished end showing what I started with.

So now Sam Bly, in Death on the Delaware, my work in progress, will come alive on the page.

Retreat into Writing

I set up my laptop on the wooden table in the lounge. I was ready to get started writing when I caught sight of some motion on the walk outside the glass door. A chipmunk with an acorn darted into a hole hidden under the leaves.

There I am, me, my computer, a cup of coffee and the chipmunk. Ah…

My daughter and I are just back from two nights at Peldle Hill, a Quaker retreat near Philadelphia. Our room was reminiscent or my college dorm. In fact the buildings were about the same age. Pendle Hill, for all its rural flavor, actually backs up on a super highway, but you would never know it. The grounds are a wonderful combination of gardens and wild spots, with benches everywhere. We looked for fish and turtles in the pond, identified the bushes and trees. Talked to others, browsed the bookstore, and walked the labyrinth.

I went with the idea that I would be able to edit my manuscript better if I were away from home. I’ve been working on this collection of short stories for over 20 years. Some are published, some are not. I have pulled them together in a collection with the working title The Casebook of Emily Lawrence.

I don’t have a deadline in the sense that I have to return the manuscript by such and such a date, but I would like to get it back before the publisher forgets who I am. Seems like a good thing to do, to get away from home, to set a goal, and to go after it. Let someone else do the cooking.

The chipmunks were an unexpected bonus.

Because the setting was idyllic, the people friendly, the food exceptional, don’t get the idea that the work was any easier. It took the same amount of will power to come in off the trail and sit down and to write. I had to tell myself over and over that I would get to go out again when I finished this story. Many, but not all of the things I find distractions at home were missing. I couldn’t get up and watch TV but I could email. I didn’t have to do the dishes, but I could have kept my room neater. 

I did have to keep reminding myself that I was there to work. It was OK to watch the chipmunk when he (or she) appeared, but I couldn’t be looking around for her (or him) when I was supposed to be writing.

When I closed up my computer for the last time, I realized I had done almost twice as much as I had planned, in less time. Since we had to be out of the room by 10 am, I packed up everything, locked it in the car and took one more stroll around the property.

I still have half the stories to rework. Maybe I will go back to finish it up. Maybe the chipmunk with be waiting for me.

Writing Away

I loved the movie Misery. I was hooked from the beginning. I was so entranced that I sat through the wincing violence of having a fan like Annie Wilkes (Kathy Bates). I can understand the agony of having an author kill off a favorite character. I can understand the kind of fandom that drives a writer mad. But what I loved, loved, loved about the movie was the fact that Paul Sheldon (James Caan) got to go away to finish his book. And not just anywhere. He went into the beautiful snowy mountains.
I write at my dining room table. It is cluttered with journals, note books, books I am reading, my knitting, empty boxes I haven’t tossed yet. Oh, yes, and a half finished chocolate bar. There is a coffee cup there as well, but I don’t consider that clutter.
I, like Mr. Sheldon, am working on the final phase of a manuscript. And, like Mr. Sheldon, I have to kill off a beloved character. How I long to be somewhere neat and clean, where someone else does the housework and the cooking. I could sit for hours without distractions, going over the manuscript and making necessary and often difficult changes.
This time I get my wish. Tomorrow my daughter and I are leaving for a three day sabbatical.
For the last few years we have attended a weekend writers’ conference together. We write very different things, so there aren’t many conferences that we can both attend. We missed it this year because we didn’t want to drive for hours, or pay for flying. This mid-week respite will do in its place.
I have reserved two nights at a local retreat house. We can sit in the room or the library or under the trees and write, uninterrupted. I’m not sure about my daughter, but I have set myself a schedule. I have 15 stories to whip into shape. I will do three a day, morning, afternoon, and evening. I don’t plan to finish, but I do plan to get half done and make most of the tougher decisions. One of the most difficult decisions concerns Charles’ death. I have put off writing about it for 20 years.
I don’t know if I am more excited about the writing or being where someone else does the cooking. I just hope we get home without meeting any of our number one fans.
I’d love to hear from any of you who have taken such a sabbatical. Was it useful, refreshing, restorative? Did you get lots of work done? Would you do it again?

Who is Professor Lothrop, anyway?

There it was on page 12. “Elbert Lothrop”. Professor Lothrop is the father of my protagonist, Emily Lawrence. I have named the four recurring characters of Emily’s parent’s generation after my own family members. The Stevens, next door are named after my parents, Elizabeth and Henry. Those names have stuck. Emily’s parents are Arthur and Emma, after my paternal grandfather and my maternal grandmother. Emma has been fine with her name, though my grandmother though it old fashioned. It’s the professor who has been giving me the most trouble.

I have written more than 50 short stories and four novels with Emily as the point of view character. Her family and the Stevens appear in only a few. I keep an extensive list of characteristic for everyone. Because some appear so infrequently, I have to refer to it often. I’m not sure how Emily’s father slipped through. He started out as Arthur, but then when I wasn’t looking, he changed his name to Albert. This would not do, too close to another character who seemed satisfied with his name: Alfred Cox.

I didn’t have any need to argue with Arthur/Albert, since he wasn’t going to appear in print any time soon, so I left him with whatever name he preferred. That is no longer an option. I have compiled a collection of Emily short stories and have a nibble from a publisher. The issue of this name must be settled NOW.

Papa Lothrop appears in the first two stories. Edits on the first story went smoothly, but then in story two, suddenly and unexpectedly, there is Elbert. I suspect Elbert will be the final choice. In real life Elbert is the father of Arthur (my paternal grandpa). It is also a more uncommon name than most of my characters have found for themselves.

Please, sir, be satisfied with this name.
 

Wonder Woman

My critique group meets in an independent book store one evening a month. When I arrived at Greg Shauer’s Between Books 2.0 for the July meeting I went to the counter to see if the book I had ordered last month had arrived. I was looking forward to a trip to Boston minutes before the Revolution where the thieftaker Ethan Kaille hunts those who break the law of the Crown and wonder if now is the time to switch sides and support the Sons of Liberty. Oh, yes, he does this while trying to avoid being hanged for a witch.

Lying on the counter beside my book was another with a bright yellow, red, and blue cover with a picture of Wonder Woman in full color on the cover. I paid for Plunder of Souls by D.B. Jackson and started reading while I waited for the other members of the group to show up. But my eyes kept wandering back to the Wonder Woman book.

My mother had tried to teach me to read before I started first grade. She gave up in frustration. My parents were very careful, but still I overheard a conversation that was followed almost at once by lots of tests. My father, who was studding for his master’s degree in education, told me they were to help him with his class work.  I was in graduate school myself before I heard the magic word Dyslexia.

That changed when my friend showed me her comic books. We took turns reading the dialog bubbles. Since we were both horse lovers we read westerns. The Lone Ranger and Straight Arrow were my favorites. But we read our share of super heroes as well. I didn’t like Wonder Woman and I was never sure why. As I aged and understood the world better, my view of WW changed, but never for the better. I was never sure if it was the excessive bondage, the clothing, or the fact that I might have believed at one time that women could never be like that. Or maybe it was that she was presented as a super hero but she ended up doing the typing.

On my third time up to look at the cover of the book, I finally saw who the author was. Jill Lapore. I was in line for her first book, The Name of War, before it came out. Using King Philip’s War as her laboratory she looks at the thesis that the one who gets naming rights wins the war. That is why it is King Philip’s War, not Matacom’s War. I bought her second book New York Burning and had my eyes opened to a whole new episode in history, not one I had never heard of, but one I knew little about.

So now I had to own this book, not because it was about Wonder Woman but because of Writer Woman the author.

I am a bit more than half way through. It is shorter than it looks because it is a scholarly work with pages of notes. I find I am a bit uneasy about this story much as I was about the Wonder Woman comics. Again I can’t say why. It isn’t the strange family structure of Dr. Marsden, or the way he seems to have assumed that everyone would take care of him. Or even the fact that he manipulated the truth to get what he wanted.

Perhaps the real problem is not with Wonder Woman, Dr. Marsden or my dyslexia, but with the fact that life isn’t fair and I really wish it were.