C. Aubrey Hall's Blog, page 32

Whimsies–A Science Fiction Christmas

I know that we’re already a week into the new year, and Christmas 2012 is behind us. But writers must keep their inner child alive, bright, and happy. Here’s one of the ways I did that during the recent holidays.

This year, my home office desk supports a tacky little white artificial Christmas tree. It’s loaded with atomic-age robot, rocket ship, astronaut, and alien blown-glass ornaments.

I was in a Christmas shop in early December, seeking a gift, when I saw these crazy 1950s robots hanging on a tree along with T. rex ornaments covered in bright glitter. It was obviously a tree designed for a little boy’s room, and in some whacky way the dinosaurs and space ships worked together.

Maybe childhood nostalgia hit me (although I’ve never pined for the return of the 1960s). I thought of Robbie the Robot from the classic science fiction film, FORBIDDEN PLANET. Mainly, though, I was smitten by the glittery pink robot. It was goofy.

I smiled. I resisted. I nearly escaped the store unscathed.

Then it hit me … I write science fiction and fantasy. What a perfect tree to set up in my office!

But how absurd. How nonsensical. How impractical.

How utterly enchanting.

The stark reality of my Visa bill is still an abstraction of the future. Meanwhile, I spent a fun hour that day picking ornaments. From that point, my OCD kicked in and everywhere I went thereafter I was tuned in to robots. Why hadn’t I noticed before that Target was carrying STAR WARS ‘bots? I skipped over Darth Vader and C3PO (too gold!) but came home with R2D2. Then I found cool ‘bot ornaments at Hobby Lobby and snagged the last tread-tracker a split-second ahead of a little boy’s admiring fingers.

(What kind of Scrooge notices that a child wants robot ornaments and reaches for them faster? Do I feel guilty? Not at all! The kid got the last rocket ship ornament. Drat!)

The next step was determining what kind of tree to hang this loot upon. A green tree? I’d already put one up in the living room–very traditional and pretty. I didn’t want to buy another tree. I’d splurged enough on this impulse.

Then inspiration hit me. Stored in my garage is one of those old aluminum trees, circa 1964.

When I was a child, we aquired one of these shiny foil atrocities. My grandmother owned a big one for a while, complete with color wheel, but then it disappeared. My mother, however, loved her little one. She put it up, year after year. It was quick and economical. She had no intention of wasting money on one of those gorgeous cut trees at the grocery store.

I hated the aluminum tree. It was weird. When I was old enough, I landed the annual chore of putting the thing together and hanging shiny red balls on it. When eventually it no longer graced our living room, I still wasn’t rid of it. Mom decreed that it would be put up in my dad’s office reception room, and so I continued to suffer seeing it, in all its shiny silver ugliness, year after year. When I went to graduate school and was too poor to buy a tree, she gave it to me. Ungrateful, I tossed the thing in a garage sale.

That’s when I discovered–too late–that aluminum trees had become highly desirable collector’s items. These mutants were valuable. Who knew?

So out of guilt–and because Mom never quite forgave me for selling hers for $5–I tracked one down and stuck it in the garage.

Realizing it would be perfect for my extraterrestrial space tree, I dug it out and assembled it with glee. It proved to be too fragile to safely support the breakable ornaments. I gave it a cold, objective stare.

It was a moment of honesty. I didn’t care how collectible aluminum trees are. An atrocity is still an atrocity. Age and trendiness can’t change that. I’m glad it wouldn’t work for the ‘bot project. Out it went.

Still, I needed a tree. My garage is like Aladdin’s cave–full of treasures and junk. A few years ago, during the height of the Shabby Chic decorating movement, I had purchased a small white tree at a post-season closeout sale. Never used, lacking any lights, it proved to be perfect for my ‘bots.

Like the proud owner of a new puppy, I took pictures and sent them to my closest friends. These individuals may think I’ve lost my mind, but they’ve been too kind to say so. Writers are, after all, inclined to be a bit–um–peculiar.

Although it’s my custom to take down the decorations on New Year’s Day, I’m loath right now to part with my space tree. It makes me smile every time I look at it. And this was an emotionally rocky Christmas when I needed all the smiles I could garner.

It reminds me that no matter how adept I may be at writing technique, I should keep my imagination–my fey spirit–blithe, impulsive, and ready to have fun when I sit down at the keyboard. Like most artists, I need frequent doses of whimsy to keep me going.

If it’s not fun, writing is just too hard a task to pursue.

What’s whimsical in your writing life? Are you indulging it or ignoring it?

Crisp, Fast, Focused

If you compare the genre fiction of today with books written, say, in 1972, you’ll see a leaner, quicker product in the modern novel. That change doesn’t necessarily generate a better, more satisfying reading experience. It’s simply different. Twenty-first century readers assimilate information in short, fast bursts from multiple sources. They don’t want a long setup or lengthy description or a lot of background.

While some people still settle into a comfy chair for an evening of reading with soft music in the background and a beverage at their elbow, many are reading on their SmartPhones while waiting in the fast food line, or commuting, or in the dentist’s reception room. Distractions abound, and the savvy writer must adapt to the needs of readers who are frequently interrupted.

I wince as I suggest this, but let’s superficially compare a John D. MacDonald novel to a James (ouch) Patterson story. Both authors deal with crime/suspense. Both have been hugely successful. Both created a popular, long-running series built around an appealing protagonist. Both, in turn, have been considered tight, fast reads.

Now for the differences:

1) MacDonald’s books have long, well-developed chapters.

2) Patterson’s chapters are incredibly short . . . two or three pages.

3) MacDonald takes his time in introducing characters vividly and capably, usually in action designed to showcase their personalities.

4) Patterson slaps a name on his characters and launches into the

plot action.

5) MacDonald writes intense physical action, using sentence fragments.

6) Patterson writes physical action in narrative summary or scene fragments, hitting the gist of the encounter and cutting away to the next chapter.

So if you want to write today’s lean scene, consider the following:

1) Know exactly what your scene is about.

2) Does the setting have any bearing on the scene’s outcome? If not, take description down to the bare essential of one dominant impression, mentioned briefly.

3) Strip away all the extraneous characters. Center the scene on the protagonist and antagonist.

4) What does the protagonist want, right now, in this instant of story time?

5) How does the protagonist intend to achieve that desire or objective?

6) Does the antagonist want to stop the protagonist from accomplishing that objective? (The answer should be yes.)

7) What is the antagonist’s plan to thwart the protagonist?

8) What motivates the protagonist?

9) What motivates the antagonist?

10) How can the scene end in disaster for the protagonist?

Does your scene hit all ten of those marks? Take a scene you’ve already written and work through the checklist. Do you have four characters standing around? Chances are that two of the extra people have commented or interrupted the main argument. Remove them!

Have you spent three paragraphs explaining motivation and background? Well, now you know the motivations so you can let Greg Goode and Bill Baddun yell at each other from those points of reference. There’s no need to explain it all to the reader. Readers can put two and two together just fine.

Is the scene goal clear? Most writers who aren’t sure write a lot of unnecessary words in hopes of figuring something out. That’s great for rough draft, but not so interesting for what readers will be seeing. Remember the old adage: if you don’t know where you’re going, you can’t get there.

If your scene hits all the marks but is still longer than, say, six or seven manuscript pages, look for any circular argument or repetitious conflict. What section of the disagreement is the most potent or important? Keep that, and trim the rest. Read it over to see if it makes sense when it’s shortened. If it doesn’t, what single comment will best fill the gap?

Writing lean takes extra time, extra care, and a lot of focus. You can’t afford to ramble.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

From My Bookshelf: PLEATING FOR MERCY

Occasionally, I crave the comfort of reading a cozy mystery … just as from time to time I want a hot-fudge sundae.

On a recent browse through the bookstore in search of comfort reading, I came across PLEATING FOR MERCY by Melissa Bourbon. Like so many of today’s American cozies, it’s part of a “themed” series, with the requisite pun title.

I’m sure you’ve noticed the plethora of “cupcake” mysteries, “scrapbooking” mysteries, “library” mysteries, “dog viewpoint” mysteries, “cat” mysteries, “herb-growing” mysteries, any number of “cooking” mysteries, “closet organization” mysteries, “antiques” mysteries, “knitting” mysteries, “home renovation” mysteries, etc. etc. etc. (The mind boggles!) Bourbon’s series is called “A Magical Dressmaking Mystery.”

Why in the world did my hand reach out to pluck this novel off the shelf? Well, I have an interest in sewing. Not in the sense of I’m-going-to-sew-my-own-clothes interest, but in sewing as a domestic art and a pleasant hobby. Personally, I sew only to piece quilts. However, the idea of reading about a couturier protatonist appealed to me. It hit several other appeal buttons: small-town setting; prodigal daughter coming home from a big city; multi-generation family life.

Bourbon–no doubt attempting to hit every possible marketing angle–also has a Texas locale, paranormal elements including a ghost, and a touch of history. (The protagonist is a descendent of Butch Cassidy.)

Conceptually, it feels like she threw in the kitchen sink along with everything else.

In reality, the book is a pleasant read. The characters are quirky, yes, but not so bizarre that you wonder, who came up with these oddballs?

Forensic details are swept mercifully to the background. The protagonist is under the pressure of finishing the bride’s dress before the wedding, while wondering whether the bride or the groom is going to be arrested for murder.

Granted, this is no hard-hitting, suspenseful murder mystery. Finding a clue in a broken jar of vintage buttons may be too simple for your tastes. But the plot is solid. There’s enough of an internal conflict in the protagonist to make her interesting. A couple of romantic subplots add more questions. While I found Bourbon’s transitions to be rather rough and the paranormal aspects annoyed me only because they always do, these were minor things that didn’t detract from my enjoyment of a quiet, easy-to-read cozy.

Even if my favorite character was the grandmother’s pet goat, I will read the next book in the series. (Title: A FITTING END)

When in Doubt, Speed Up!

Do you ever read a novel that bogs down in the middle? Or gets vague and tangled up as it goes?

Do you ever write a story that maybe starts off in an exciting way but soon you find that every page you’re producing is a slog … uphill … through quicksand?

And then, when you read over it, it’s even worse than you thought?

How easy it is to write when you’re enthusiastic and passionate about your plot and characters. And why are you that way? Because you have an idea. You can envision that opening scene, that event. You see the setting vividly. You hear the dialogue. You feel what your protagonist is feeling, and you can’t wait to get to your keyboard. Oh, the joy of feeling those words flowing from your imagination to your computer screen.

And then, the big opening is over. You’ve written it. Now a fog closes in around you. The headlights that once shone across your novel are dim. Maybe one headlight has cracked, and now you have a tentative notion of where your characters are going next, but you aren’t sure.

In my experience, uncertainty generates a slow-down in pacing. You may not realize it because you’re so busy trying to juggle a dozen other writing techniques. But if you doubt the scene you’re about to write, it will come through as timidity, hesitancy, and caution.

Before you know it, your next scene, and the next, and the next are small. The stakes shrink. Your characters are talking instead of arguing. The conflict level has dwindled to zero. You keep saying, “I’m stuck. Why am I stuck? I had a great idea. What’s happened to it? It’s horrible. I hate it. I think I’ll write something else instead.”

As for your characters, when you’re unsure they become dull. Why? Because your caution will usually lead you to tone down their design. They become plain, ordinary, realistic people who chat with each other about nothing important.

You are in a whirlpool, my friends, and you are going down.

The answer?

Go big! Go faster!

This is one of those rare times when a writer should work contrary to his instincts. It’s natural to shrink. But a writer must enhance, enlarge, go wild, be unpredictable, take chances … LEAP!

So how, you might be thinking, am I supposed to pick up the pace when I don’t know where I’m going?

Believe in your original story idea, the one you plotted in your preliminary outline, the one you smoothed and honed and thought over before you ever began your project. Believe in it. Trust it. Stick with it.

Also, if you’ve bogged down and can’t think of what’s going to happen next, go back to the point in your story where you stopped writing conflict, where your protagonist stopped actively pursuing a goal, and where no antagonist stepped up to oppose the hero’s success.

Fix that!

No aimless chatter allowed. The characters should be arguing, disagreeing, trying to persuade or plead or influence each other. Raise the stakes. Put your protagonist in trouble. Even if you’re still stuck, throw in a massively wild, totally unexpected danger that’s apparently unconnected to anything you have going on.

Planned? No. But do anything to get your story rolling again. You can figure out a connection later in revision.

The wild, out-of-left-field plot twist or new trouble is a technique that I call an “alligator.” Why? Long story. Just keep in mind that when you happen to meet a real alligator, you have only a few options–chiefly are you going to run away from it and maybe call the authorities or fight it? Alligators are primitive, crude, highly dangerous reptiles. They don’t allow you to stand there passively, staring at them. When confronted by one, either on land or in the water, you must TAKE ACTION!

Same thing with your plot. Alligators shouldn’t force your storyline completely off track, but give your characters an unexpected, new, immediate problem to deal with. Get ‘em moving. And above all, get them moving fast.

The more conflict you put them in, the faster your story will go. The more exaggerated and flamboyant your characters are forced to be, the more active they’ll become.

Give it a try, the next time you start slogging.

From My Bookshelf: THE SWEETNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PIE

I’ll be the first to admit that my shelf of to-be-read books gets overloaded and dusty at times. Some of the novels on the bottom of the stack are so far from recent their publication buzz has long since faded to silence.

If I mention Alan Bradley’s mystery, THE SWEETNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PIE, to people, I get either a blank look or a quick shrug with the comment, “Sure, I’ve read that!”

So I’m late to the party with this one. I think Bradley has added two or more novels to the series about little Flavia de Luce since PIE was published. Still, who says we have to read books the instant they’re published? Maybe you’re like me, not quite sure about PIE’s premise or its odd title.

All I can say is, Don’t be as slow as I was to pick it up!

Set in England during 1950, only five short years following the ravages of WWII, PIE is a delight from start to finish. Flavia’s entry action in the opening pages is so characteristic of her. It leaves a memorable first impression, plus it foreshadows a later event.

Back in cave-dwelling times, when my writing career as a professional novelist was just beginning, I sent Official Manuscript #2 to my New York agent. It was a young adult adventure set in the Middle Ages. She called me to have a serious talk about whether I intended to write more books for kids. (Please realize that in cave-dwelling times, a long distance phone call was a big deal.)

In 1980, the kids’ market was all but dead in the water. My agent advised me away from that direction, fearing that I intended to target my fledgling career toward a dead end. Should I repeat the word dead one more time in emphasis?

Neither of us could see into the future, much less predict that today the young adult market would rule.

Nevertheless, in 1980 editors would have glanced at the opening pages of PIE, seen that the protagonist is eleven, and rejected it because they weren’t interested back then in publishing children’s fiction.

Let’s get this point established: PIE may be about a child, but it’s not a book written for children. Flavia is as smart as any adult protagonist. The little genius is a clever investigator, and her youth keeps her constantly on the move. The book doesn’t plod. It doesn’t bog down in the middle. The plot twists do their job well, and the clues are puzzlers.

Beyond the central plotline, we have several subplots to keep things lively. Flavia’s ongoing rivalry with her eldest sister Ophelia leads to some brow-raising methods of revenge. The poignant character Dogger, so faithful to Flavia’s father, may be the loyal servant, but he’s more than a stock character as he gives Flavia the emotional support that she critically needs–although she’d rather die than admit it.

The backstory of Flavia’s beautiful mother injects another layer of mystery to the tale. Add several small threads about various villagers, and you have a complex, fast-paced, intricate mystery with a good villain and a very real dose of danger.

Although Bradley’s a Canadian author, he’s managed to evoke a believable post-war England setting. If you’re an Anglophile, enjoy yourself. If you’re not up to speed on mid-century British slang and customs, let alone some of the famous movie stars of the ’50s, you may find yourself puzzled by more than the mystery. Don’t let that keep you away, however.

Just find a comfy chair, put your feet up, set a cup of tea or cocoa at your elbow, and enjoy turning the pages.

From My Bookshelf: FROM THE SWEETNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PIE

I’ll be the first to admit that my shelf of to-be-read books gets overloaded and dusty at times. Some of the novels on the bottom of the stack are so far from recent their publication buzz has long since faded to silence.

If I mention Alan Bradley’s mystery, FROM THE SWEETNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PIE, to people, I get either a blank look or a quick shrug with the comment, “Sure, I’ve read that!”

So I’m late to the party with this one. I think Bradley has added two or more novels to the series about little Flavia de Luce since PIE was published. Still, who says we have to read books the instant they’re published? Maybe you’re like me, not quite sure about PIE’s premise or its odd title.

All I can say is, Don’t be as slow as I was to pick it up!

Set in England during 1950, only five short years following the ravages of WWII, PIE is a delight from start to finish. Flavia’s entry action in the opening pages is so characteristic of her. It leaves a memorable first impression, plus it foreshadows a later event.

Back in cave-dwelling times, when my writing career as a professional novelist was just beginning, I sent Official Manuscript #2 to my New York agent. It was a young adult adventure set in the Middle Ages. She called me to have a serious talk about whether I intended to write more books for kids. (Please realize that in cave-dwelling times, a long distance phone call was a big deal.)

In 1980, the kids’ market was all but dead in the water. My agent advised me away from that direction, fearing that I intended to target my fledgling career toward a dead end. Should I repeat the word dead one more time in emphasis?

Neither of us could see into the future, much less predict that today the young adult market would rule.

Nevertheless, in 1980 editors would have glanced at the opening pages of PIE, seen that the protagonist is eleven, and rejected it because they weren’t interested back then in publishing children’s fiction.

Let’s get this point established: PIE may be about a child, but it’s not a book written for children. Flavia is as smart as any adult protagonist. The little genius is a clever investigator, and her youth keeps her constantly on the move. The book doesn’t plod. It doesn’t bog down in the middle. The plot twists do their job well, and the clues are puzzlers.

Beyond the central plotline, we have several subplots to keep things lively. Flavia’s ongoing rivalry with her eldest sister Ophelia leads to some brow-raising methods of revenge. The poignant character Dogger, so faithful to Flavia’s father, may be the loyal servant, but he’s more than a stock character as he gives Flavia the emotional support that she critically needs–although she’d rather die than admit it.

The backstory of Flavia’s beautiful mother injects another layer of mystery to the tale. Add several small threads about various villagers, and you have a complex, fast-paced, intricate mystery with a good villain and a very real dose of danger.

Although Bradley’s a Canadian author, he’s managed to evoke a believable post-war England setting. If you’re an Anglophile, enjoy yourself. If you’re not up to speed on mid-century British slang and customs, let alone some of the famous movie stars of the ’50s, you may find yourself puzzled by more than the mystery. Don’t let that keep you away, however.

Just find a comfy chair, put your feet up, set a cup of tea or cocoa at your elbow, and enjoy turning the pages.

Making Time

It’s Christmastime, probably the busiest, most hectic time of the year. One of my local radio stations plays constant holiday music from Thanskgiving Day until the end of December. In the last two weeks my favorite song has become an oldie rock-and-roll song from Chuck Berry called, “Run Run Rudolph.”

That’s me! Running here. Running there.

A few evenings ago, I sat down to write Christmas cards. Do I have time for this? Does anyone? Because I consider it important, I have this task organized. My list of people with their addresses is at my elbow. I stick to about three or four bits of news, depending on the recipient, and I keep the message simple. It goes fast, and I hope my friends and relations appreciate a handwritten note, even if it’s only a couple of paragraphs. If my note is too blah, everyone’s been too kind to tell me so.

Last year, in a fit of pique at relatives who now rely on Facebook to share their year (maybe even their life history), I purged my list. So the other evening, after I finished addressing and sealing envelopes, I looked at the short stack in surprise. It saddened me to see how small my list is now. For years, I’ve kept it right about 18-20 individuals, roughly the same number as a book of stamps. There’s always slight attrition as some friends drop away, but new ones are made. I’ve even kept in touch with a couple of people since college. Granted, I know folks who send out over a 100 cards each year, so my list is admittedly modest. I think I’ve overlooked about three individuals this year that I intended to add. As soon as I locate their addresses, I’ll get that done.

I can just imagine you all shaking your heads at me, the fuddy-duddy still living in the past century. For the modern world, it’s not even newsletters via email anymore. Facebook pages, baby! Tweets! Yeah, yeah, these days it’s all about the technology.

I say, Phooey!

I can’t bring myself to print out emails and display them on the piano. Where’s the fun in that? If I’ve followed every micro-inch of your life this year on Facebook, down to what you eat daily for breakfast, what news is there to share for Christmas tidings?

So far this year I have about five cards on display. (Yes, I admit I’m so desperate for real mail that I’ve included the card from my stockbroker.) A few more will perhaps trickle in during the next few days, but in this high-tech world so many people have dispensed with the “bother” of cards and the expense of postage.

(I still wonder, what are we conserving stamps for?)

Convince me that I’m still dear enough to you for you to make time to pen me a note. I don’t care if it’s only two sentences about your dog. It means you bothered for my sake. I matter in your world, and you’ve given me the gift of both your time and a stamp spent on my behalf.

Everywhere I turn these days, I see people desperately pressed for time. I’m hardly in the big leagues when it comes to being busy, but most days I find it easy to become over-scheduled with errands and commitments. Fact is, there are still as many minutes in a day as there ever were. We just have more choices and options of what we can spend our time on. We don’t want to sacrifice our fun or our jobs. We want to do everything!

Well, we can’t. As writers, we shouldn’t.

To pull this post finally to the subject of writing …

Some of the most important things a writer needs are soak time, think time, and writing time.

Soak time means a chance to be quiet, to sit without distractions, to have the computer on screen saver, the phone turned off, the email chime silenced, the cell phone in another room. You’re alone with your book, alone with the images and characters in your head.

Think time means more quiet, where you’re actively sifting through that scene you’ve just written, evaluating the dialogue and the conflict intensity, making sure you haven’t left anything out. Or you’re planning the next section of story that you’re about to write–figuring out how many characters to include in the action, whether that plot twist you want to use is going to work, and deciding which viewpoint to use.

Writing time is exactly what it sounds like. Time that you carve from your busy, busy day in which to plant your backside in the chair and type those golden words that constitute story.

Every time I think about my book, I’m sacrificing something else I could be doing. Every time I work through a writing session, I’m getting pages done, but at the cost of some other activity. I accept that. We can’t have it all. We shouldn’t have it all.

No matter what we say, we always do what we most want to do. If you aren’t writing, what are you doing instead? Why? What’s really behind your priority choices?

And no matter what, take time to send your granny or uncle a holiday card. It’s a bother, yes, but aren’t they worth it?

Honoring the Old Lion

A few months ago, I was in a small antiques shop in Oklahoma City when I came across a faded, worn hardcover lying on a cluttered table. There was no dust jacket, no cover art whatsoever. The buckram had originally been blue; now it’s faded to a steely gray, and the spine is a brittle, sun-faded brown.

Because of my allergies, I forced myself years ago to give up used books. No collecting. No browsing through the musty aisle of tempting treasures. No rare or old editions. I live in the desert of no old books.

But now and then I pick up a volume to give it a look … as an individual crawling in the sand clutches a cup of water.

This ugly book had nothing attractive about it. However, centered on the cover were two words in white script: Professional Writing.

My breath caught. I pounced.

 

It was indeed a text on writing from Walter S. Campbell, founder of the professional writing program at the University of Oklahoma. A man whom I consider to be my literary great-grandfather. Campbell wrote numerous books on old west history and biography under the pen name Stanley Vestal. He taught fiction writing in OU’s English department during the 1930s and ’40s. This was the heyday of the American short story market. Campbell’s students were so successful at selling their work that trouble began brewing with other English faculty whose students were not selling. Whether the problem was sour grapes or simple jealousy, the rift grew so serious that in the 1950s, Campbell and his students walked out.

Where were they going to go?

The journalism school on campus was just getting started. Its director needed students, even if they weren’t interested in working on the fledgling newspaper. The school changed its name to Journalism and Mass Communication, and Campbell and his class settled in. It became an odd alliance that has somehow worked down through the years, with PW still focused on teaching the craft and methodologies of writing that have worked since Aristotle. Students are still selling their work, provided they work hard and get their manuscripts in the hands of editors. Students have included various novelists such as Tony Hillerman, Louis L’Amour, Carolyn Hart, Curtiss Ann Matlock, and Jim Butcher, to name only a few.

When I was a student in the program, I took “Writing the Short Story” in a classroom dedicated to honoring Campbell. It had a brass plate on the door, designating it as the “Stanley Vestal Memorial Classroom.” Inside, students sat at long, blond-wood tables. Large glass display cases at the back of the room held copies of Cambell’s books. His portrait hung on the wall, and it was painted in such a way that his eyes followed you around the room. Until I took the class, I’d never heard of my major program’s founder. But I learned about him and what he stood for and believed in when it came to writing.

He was followed in the program by a fiesty writer named Foster-Harris. Google the name. You’ll find his books on plotting still available. Foster is my literary great-uncle. His breakdown of story climax is one of the best I’ve encountered. Then came a teacher called Dwight Swain. Dwight is my literary grandfather. He’d retired from the classroom by the time I enrolled, but I was assigned his text on writing, TECHNIQUES OF THE SELLING WRITER, and I read it until the binding split. If you met Dwight at a party, he’d always ask what you were working on, and if you confessed you were stuck, he could put his finger on the problem instantly.

One of his ablest pupils was a hard-headed Yankee named Jack Bickham. It took Dwight many patient coaching sessions before he finally hammered the principles of story craft into Jack’s stubborn head, but once Jack “got it,” his career took off like a rocket.

Jack shone best, however, in the classroom. His personality might be intimidating, but his teaching was phenomenal. His ability to explain the writing craft opened doors to me and explained mysteries that had kept me stymied as I attempted to write my first wobbly stories. Jack was my literary father.

But today’s blog is supposed to be more about Campbell than his successors. In the antiques shop, I picked up the battered old book and opened it. After hearing so much about his teaching, this was the first time I’d actually gotten my hands on his textbook.

It was dated 1937, and he’d autographed it to a student named Rosalie. Not only do I now have his book, mine to study and learn from, but I have his signature. In my imagination, I can conjure up a tall, distinguished man–a pipe in his teeth–scratching out a rapid little note with his fountain pen. How proud and excited Rosalie must have felt, standing there–perhaps after class–while her teacher signed her copy.

 

Last year, I went to a local estate sale and was digging around the bits and pieces remaining in the last hour of the sale when I turned and saw a large, framed, black-and-white photograph. I recognized him immediately–that wide brow, the strong jaw and tidily clipped mustache, a kind mouth, and the intelligent, deep-set eyes that look right at you. The photo was obviously what Campbell’s oil portrait had been painted from. I had seen that calm, wise countenance almost daily for years–first as a student and later when I began to teach in the program. I bought the photo for six dollars and carried it home with a thrill that hasn’t faded. Today, Campbell’s likeness hangs in my office, directly behind where I sit when I write my novels, where I’m writing this blog now.

 

It seems to remind me that good craftsmanship is always worth striving for, no matter how tired and discouraged I might sometimes become. It speaks to me of where I’ve come from, of the traditions that have shaped me, and of the training I’ve worked so hard to assimilate.

Yesterday, I found myself in that same small antiques shop I mentioned earlier. On the same table, I came across another battered hardcover book. Its blue buckram cover is a little fancier. There’s still no cover art, but the plain title has been outlined in gold. The cloth has been worn smooth from use and handling. The edges are worn white. There’s no author signature on the inside cover this time. The edition is 1946, almost ten years apart from my other copy. The pages are heavily underlined in pencil by its first, enthusiastic owner.

I see no other changes, no real differences from the 1937 edition. Why buy two copies of a musty old book, written by a man long gone?

Call me a fan. Call me grateful for his legacy.

From My Bookshelf…THE HOUSE AT TYNEFORD

Once upon a time, I prowled the shelves of my hometown public library and read armloads of books written before the advent of genre orientation, high concept, sales hook, and tag line marketing. Once upon a time, a book was a book. It might be about characters you liked or felt indifferent to. You might finish it or toss it aside. Still, you knew that the majority of the time, when you opened the cover and began it, you would be exploring a story with some degree of insight and depth. Or, it might be simply magical.

These days, I primarily read genre fiction because I want a plot to go along with intriguing characters and interesting backdrops. At some point in mid-to-late 20th century publishing, a schism developed that tossed “plot-oriented” books into one heap and “character-oriented” books into another. Labels of genre or mainstream were pasted on. Aspiring writers found themselves pushed to join one party or the other, to either pursue the market or to disdain the market.

As a writer, I understand what’s happened to the publishing industry. As a reader, I lament the loss and confusion this division engenders when I just want to lose myself in a good story for a few hours.

From time to time, a yearning comes over me to read a book with style, a book with grace and poise. If that’s all the book has–pretty words strung together lyrically–then it’s similar to sitting down to one’s supper and being served nothing but cake icing. Cloying and empty of nutrition.

This week, I put aside the mysteries I’ve been reading lately and picked up a book bought on impulse. THE HOUSE AT TYNEFORD by Natasha Solomons was published first in England and then here in 2011. My edition proclaims it a New York Times bestseller. Reviewers have lauded it. It’s selling well according to the ranking on amazon.com. The publisher even promises fans of the hit TV series, DOWNTON ABBEY, that they’ll love this book.

With some trepidation–due to my suspicion of such puffery and having been burned innumerable times by the modern literary mainstream crowd–I sat down with TYNEFORD a few days ago.

Well, Solomons can do the pretty writing that I miss. Her depictions of pre-war Vienna deliver exquisite word pictures. The poignant party given by the protagonist’s parents, when all the Jewish guests show up wearing somber coats and hats to cloak themselves in the streets and then cast off their outerwear to display magnificent silk gowns and all the jewels they own, is a sublime set-piece. The characters of Anna and Julian cast their spell. They make you want to meet them, to be a part of their circle, to attend one of Anna’s concerts so you can hear her sing.

The concept of the book offers exactly the kind of contrast that I enjoy. A pampered Jewish girl is sent to England just before WWII for safety. The only way she can get a visa is to accept a job as a parlor-maid at a stately country house. The first third of the book deals with Elise doing just that. Having arrived with the family jewels sewn into her dress hem, she must scramble to learn her duties as a servant.

The middle of the book loses momentum. The storyline is a simple one, a bit too simple to sustain the mid-portion of a novel. It’s predictable as well. That predictability combined with a dawdling pace makes this section of the book seem interminable. I cared enough about Elise, the old butler Wrexham, and Mr. Rivers to keep going. Barely. I wanted to know whether the village and the country house would survive the war. Elise’s main concerns, however, falter here. The author drops a number of foreshadowing hints in the vein of Daphne du Maurier’s REBECCA, but not as effectively.

The ending, so slow in coming, offers no surprises–except to the protagonist. Elise is the last to know, whereas I saw the outcome from the beginning. That made me rather impatient with her.

I realize that for process-oriented readers, there’s no problem. I’m the kind of reader that’s looking to the outcome, the finale. (I’m the person who had to be dragged, protesting all the way, to a movie theater to see James Cameron’s TITANIC because I knew how it was going to end.)

Then, after such a leisurely pace through the majority of Solomons’s book,  there’s a hasty little wrap-up, a tacked-on denouement of hope and affirmation. It reminds me of the reunion between sisters depicted in Amy Tan’s THE JOY LUCK CLUB, except the encounter barely happens before we’re whisked on to the next thing Solomons wants us to see. The emotional satisfaction that this reunion should provide is sacrificed in the cause of tossing in everything still left on the author’s checklist.

Generally, I enjoyed the book very much despite its plot shortcomings. I intentionally shut off my inner critic–the one grumbling about plot weaknesses–in order to spend time in this magical English setting. Some reviewers have described the book as “old-fashioned storytelling,” and it does have a flavor of older novels. I just wish there had been more happening than waiting for something to happen.

Ho Ho No: Holiday Deadlines

This morning, as I was surveying my bare Christmas tree that’s not yet decorated much less connected to electricity, I realized that this is the first holiday in three years free of book-deadline pressure. I can make fudge and hang baubles on my tree with no Sword of Damocles hanging over me.

Several years ago–after struggling to work on a book during a Christmas visit to my grandparents’ home, unable to convince my disappointed grandmother why I had to shut myself away to write–I swore that I would never again agree to a December/January deadline.

But book contracts are what they are. Writers can’t always negotiate an optimum delivery date. The YA trilogy that I’ve just wrapped up with the concluding novel, MAGE FIRE, due to be published in June 2013, just so happened to have February deadlines. Which meant working across the Christmas break. And although I’ve had a little wriggle room for family time and celebrations, it’s also meant coping with that inner sense of guilt for every hour spent playing instead of writing.

Not this year! The sense of freedom is exhilarating. The sense of a work well done, an accomplishment achieved, is a good feeling to have.

Of course, the itch to get started on a new novel is already in place, but I don’t have to feel guilty about it yet. I have no worries about meeting a daily page quota or whether I have enough time to smooth a problematic scene one more time.

All of that will be back with me soon enough. Say, about January 3rd. Time enough, meanwhile, to have fun.

P.S. For any of you who might be interested … Amazon is currently running a special promotion on my C. Aubrey Hall books. CRYSTAL BONES and THE CALL OF EIRIAN are hugely discounted in the hardcover, and e-versions are free to Amazon Prime members. Also, the concluding volume–MAGE FIRE–is now available for pre-order.

I don’t know how long the promotion will last, but I thought I’d spread the word. Should there be any 12-year-olds on your shopping list ….