Rachael Eyre's Blog, page 13
February 16, 2015
The Bookworm Meme
I'll be honest with you, I've never cared for memes. Every time one dollops onto my Facebook page, I heave a tremendous sigh and think, "Again?" Before I know it, I'm concocting a supervillain's name from the name of my first cat and the last place I had a hangover. Memes are compulsive!
So I thought I'd invent my own. The rules are simple: 10 personal facts to do with your reading habits. They can be funny, serious or plain weird - all that matters is they're true.
1) The first "rude" book I remember reading was The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, where our hero spends an inordinate amount of time measuring his 'thing'. Me and my mate Bart got told off for reading it - so why was it in the school library?
2) I firmly believe that your favourite Wind in the Willow character is very revealing - and I was startled to see this appear word for word in Upstairs at the Party. For the record, I'm a Ratty.
3) Although I don't rule long books out altogether, anything over the 300 page mark's a bit of a slog.
4) The three books that have had the greatest impact on me are To Kill a Mockingbird, Brighton Rock and The Handmaid's Tale. They all have their flaws but have touched me like nothing else.
5) I cried most over the ending of Watership Down. As for film adaptations, I wept buckets over The Thorn Birds. There goes my street cred!
6) Rereading is a compliment; choose your rereads carefully. I return to I Capture the Castle once a year; it's never disappointed me.
7) I will never trust someone who doesn't like Paddington. I love Tintin but can see why others might not be enthusiastic - but dissing fiction's most famous dufflecoat wearer is beyond the pale.
8) My first fictional crush was Jo March. I never forgave her for spurning Laurie and choosing creepy old Professor Bhaer instead.
9) The phrase is comic, not graphic novel. Even though I'm an Alan Moore fan.
10) The character I'd most like to bitchslap is Holden Caulfield. Sorry to his fans.
Now it's your turn!
So I thought I'd invent my own. The rules are simple: 10 personal facts to do with your reading habits. They can be funny, serious or plain weird - all that matters is they're true.
1) The first "rude" book I remember reading was The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, where our hero spends an inordinate amount of time measuring his 'thing'. Me and my mate Bart got told off for reading it - so why was it in the school library?
2) I firmly believe that your favourite Wind in the Willow character is very revealing - and I was startled to see this appear word for word in Upstairs at the Party. For the record, I'm a Ratty.
3) Although I don't rule long books out altogether, anything over the 300 page mark's a bit of a slog.
4) The three books that have had the greatest impact on me are To Kill a Mockingbird, Brighton Rock and The Handmaid's Tale. They all have their flaws but have touched me like nothing else.
5) I cried most over the ending of Watership Down. As for film adaptations, I wept buckets over The Thorn Birds. There goes my street cred!
6) Rereading is a compliment; choose your rereads carefully. I return to I Capture the Castle once a year; it's never disappointed me.
7) I will never trust someone who doesn't like Paddington. I love Tintin but can see why others might not be enthusiastic - but dissing fiction's most famous dufflecoat wearer is beyond the pale.
8) My first fictional crush was Jo March. I never forgave her for spurning Laurie and choosing creepy old Professor Bhaer instead.
9) The phrase is comic, not graphic novel. Even though I'm an Alan Moore fan.
10) The character I'd most like to bitchslap is Holden Caulfield. Sorry to his fans.
Now it's your turn!
January 27, 2015
The Writer Master List
If you're a writer or have known any, you're bound to recognise at least a few of these behaviours ...
1) Some writers secretly believe they are geniuses. What's more, they firmly believe that they're the finest proponent of the written word who has ever lived.
2) Some writers, having read the above, will shake their heads and sigh, "It's genii, you plebeian."
3) Some writers would rather do anything - say, watch something mildly diverting on YouTube, chat on social media or alphabetise their stationery - than do any actual writing.
4) Some writers find the concept of marketing or approaching an agent intrinsically repugnant and vulgar. Surely their talent is such that interest should gravitate towards them?
5) Some writers are opposed to the idea of writing groups because it involves listening to other people read out and discuss their work. People's time could be spent far more constructively, i.e. listening to them read out and discuss their work.
6) Some writers believe that unless you adopt a dark polo neck with glasses, some member of the fedora family or floating scarves with jangly jewellery and hennaed hair, no one will realise they're a writer. They try to look like they're posing for their dust jacket picture - men gazing soulfully into the distance, women with a bad case of Pre Raphaelite broken neck - at all times.
7) Some writers will find any excuse to insert their writing into absolutely any topic of conversation whatsoever. You ask what the weather's due to be like next weekend, they'll tentatively mention this scene they're too bashful to divulge ... and then go ahead anyway.
8) Some writers believe that they hold the universal rights to eccentric crime solving masterminds and titian haired love interests. Anyone who accidentally uses these elements in their writing is a derivative hack who must be brought to justice.
9) Some writers believe that popular fiction is the province of easily pleased, slack jawed idiots, and True Art is only appreciated by a rare discerning few.
10) Some writers, on reading the above, will demand my head in a rucksack. They'll say I'm an insult to the profession and should be excommunicated forthwith. Anyone who doesn't - and managed a wince of recognition - should congratulate themselves on being completely level headed and sane.
1) Some writers secretly believe they are geniuses. What's more, they firmly believe that they're the finest proponent of the written word who has ever lived.
2) Some writers, having read the above, will shake their heads and sigh, "It's genii, you plebeian."
3) Some writers would rather do anything - say, watch something mildly diverting on YouTube, chat on social media or alphabetise their stationery - than do any actual writing.
4) Some writers find the concept of marketing or approaching an agent intrinsically repugnant and vulgar. Surely their talent is such that interest should gravitate towards them?
5) Some writers are opposed to the idea of writing groups because it involves listening to other people read out and discuss their work. People's time could be spent far more constructively, i.e. listening to them read out and discuss their work.
6) Some writers believe that unless you adopt a dark polo neck with glasses, some member of the fedora family or floating scarves with jangly jewellery and hennaed hair, no one will realise they're a writer. They try to look like they're posing for their dust jacket picture - men gazing soulfully into the distance, women with a bad case of Pre Raphaelite broken neck - at all times.
7) Some writers will find any excuse to insert their writing into absolutely any topic of conversation whatsoever. You ask what the weather's due to be like next weekend, they'll tentatively mention this scene they're too bashful to divulge ... and then go ahead anyway.
8) Some writers believe that they hold the universal rights to eccentric crime solving masterminds and titian haired love interests. Anyone who accidentally uses these elements in their writing is a derivative hack who must be brought to justice.
9) Some writers believe that popular fiction is the province of easily pleased, slack jawed idiots, and True Art is only appreciated by a rare discerning few.
10) Some writers, on reading the above, will demand my head in a rucksack. They'll say I'm an insult to the profession and should be excommunicated forthwith. Anyone who doesn't - and managed a wince of recognition - should congratulate themselves on being completely level headed and sane.
December 13, 2014
Adaptations Across Media (If you haven't read Matilda, here be spoilers!)
A generation before JK Rowling's boy wizard, there was one undisputed star of children's literature: Roald Dahl. His kid protagonists battled a series of formidable foes - giants, witches, revolting relatives - in deliciously macabre, warped scenarios. And though we owe much to Dahl, his last hurrah was undoubtedly his finest: the 1988 fantasy cum social satire, Matilda.
Matilda is the smartest, most resourceful heroine you're likely to meet. She's kind, courageous and uses her powers - intellectual and magical - for good. Too Mary Sue for words? Wrong. She's only five years old - yes, that bears repeating, five.
Most parents would count themselves lucky to have her, but the fates have assigned her Harry and Angela Wormwood, the sleaziest, most gormless pair ever to tie the knot. Harry is a crass, emotionally abusive salesman who believes putting sawdust in car engines is a valid business model. Angela is a brainless bimbo who neglects her children and turns a blind eye to her husband's bullying. If it wasn't for Matilda's quick wits, this would be a bleak set up, but she soon develops a coping strategy: whenever Harry insults her, she gets her own back.
Although Matilda's revenges are satisfying, not to say hilarious, the story hits its stride when she starts school. The aptly named Crunchem Hall is at the mercy of a real villain: its vicious, child hating martinet of a headmistress, Miss Trunchbull. Ghoulishly funny, utterly terrifying, she is arguably Dahl's greatest creation. (Many believed her to be a none too subtle nod to the then PM, Margaret Thatcher).
Thankfully Matilda finds a champion in beautiful, broken Miss Honey, her form teacher. But what is her mentor's dark secret, and how can Matilda save her? Will she rescue the school from the Trunchbull's tyranny?
Like many Brits my age, I was raised on Dahl books, and Matilda was far and away my favourite. As befits such a classic, it's had various high profile adaptations, notably a film in 1996 and the 2010 musical.
Although a musical buff, I approached the show with reservations. The Trunchbull has been designated a drag part - understandable, given her build and physicality, but considering there are so few meaty roles for women, this bothered me. I worried a child actress wouldn't be up to the demands of playing Matilda, and Dahl's matter of fact style would be swamped by sentimentality. With all these doubts in mind, I saw it a fortnight ago.
It was a triumph. Not only did it pass the musical litmus test - I'm humming the tunes days later - but in looks, lyrics and spirit, it was quintessentially Dahl. Mr Wormwood could have stepped straight from the illustrations with his tacky checked suits and ratty moustache; the Trunchbull made you forget you were watching a man, and played her as an all too believable, well spoken ogress. (I liked that she was the PE teacher in this incarnation; like many clumsy, dreamy writers, PE was the bane of my life). It expanded previously flat characters: Mrs Wormwood is now a ballroom dancing nut; Bruce Bogtrotter, victim of one of the Trunchbull's cruel and unusual punishments, is given a personality beyond "the fat kid". Michael, Matilda's bump on a log brother, manifests all the brain activity of a pot plant; this is used to comic effect.
All this makes it sound like a rollicking good wheeze, which it is. But - and this is a big but - it achieves moments of pathos, particularly with Miss Honey's backstory. It transpires that Miss Trunchbull is her aunt, and her primary caregiver after her beloved father Magnus died (actually murdered by the Trunchbull). While the original focuses on Matilda's magnificent revenge, here we're shown the horror and loneliness of Miss Honey's situation. Magnus is more than a chalk outline this time - it turns out the tragic story Matilda has been recounting to the town librarian is the true story of Miss Honey's family. My initial reaction was annoyance ("This wasn't in the book!"), but once I guessed the identity of the Escapologist, I didn't mind, and in fact welcomed the change. The musical isn't alone in giving him a bigger role: Miss Honey reminisces about him at length in the film, and Matilda "haunts" the Trunchbull by moving his portrait around. It leads us to appreciate what Miss Honey has lost, as well as what Matilda has never had.
Which adaptation is better, film or musical? The musical has touches you could only get away with on stage: its inventive sets, casting adults as the big kids, probably the best rendition of the Pigtails Incident. And where else could you have villains bursting into song about their misguided philosophies?
In its favour, the film is more low key and realistic (if such a word can be used here), coaxing naturalistic performances from its child stars. Pam Ferris, best known for playing mumsy British eccentrics, has a whale of a time as the Trunchbull. Her bloodthirsty exclamation of "Fresh meat!" as the new kids file in makes you laugh and shudder. As for Embeth Davidtz, not only is she the most toothsome version of Miss Honey to date, she captures both her insecurity and her gentleness; this would be most people's dream teacher. You want to pick up and cuddle the poor poppet. Despite unnecessary padding (did Harry have to be investigated by the FBI?), it remains the best Dahl film so far, with a 90% Fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes.
Matilda is the smartest, most resourceful heroine you're likely to meet. She's kind, courageous and uses her powers - intellectual and magical - for good. Too Mary Sue for words? Wrong. She's only five years old - yes, that bears repeating, five.
Most parents would count themselves lucky to have her, but the fates have assigned her Harry and Angela Wormwood, the sleaziest, most gormless pair ever to tie the knot. Harry is a crass, emotionally abusive salesman who believes putting sawdust in car engines is a valid business model. Angela is a brainless bimbo who neglects her children and turns a blind eye to her husband's bullying. If it wasn't for Matilda's quick wits, this would be a bleak set up, but she soon develops a coping strategy: whenever Harry insults her, she gets her own back.
Although Matilda's revenges are satisfying, not to say hilarious, the story hits its stride when she starts school. The aptly named Crunchem Hall is at the mercy of a real villain: its vicious, child hating martinet of a headmistress, Miss Trunchbull. Ghoulishly funny, utterly terrifying, she is arguably Dahl's greatest creation. (Many believed her to be a none too subtle nod to the then PM, Margaret Thatcher).
Thankfully Matilda finds a champion in beautiful, broken Miss Honey, her form teacher. But what is her mentor's dark secret, and how can Matilda save her? Will she rescue the school from the Trunchbull's tyranny?
Like many Brits my age, I was raised on Dahl books, and Matilda was far and away my favourite. As befits such a classic, it's had various high profile adaptations, notably a film in 1996 and the 2010 musical.
Although a musical buff, I approached the show with reservations. The Trunchbull has been designated a drag part - understandable, given her build and physicality, but considering there are so few meaty roles for women, this bothered me. I worried a child actress wouldn't be up to the demands of playing Matilda, and Dahl's matter of fact style would be swamped by sentimentality. With all these doubts in mind, I saw it a fortnight ago.
It was a triumph. Not only did it pass the musical litmus test - I'm humming the tunes days later - but in looks, lyrics and spirit, it was quintessentially Dahl. Mr Wormwood could have stepped straight from the illustrations with his tacky checked suits and ratty moustache; the Trunchbull made you forget you were watching a man, and played her as an all too believable, well spoken ogress. (I liked that she was the PE teacher in this incarnation; like many clumsy, dreamy writers, PE was the bane of my life). It expanded previously flat characters: Mrs Wormwood is now a ballroom dancing nut; Bruce Bogtrotter, victim of one of the Trunchbull's cruel and unusual punishments, is given a personality beyond "the fat kid". Michael, Matilda's bump on a log brother, manifests all the brain activity of a pot plant; this is used to comic effect.
All this makes it sound like a rollicking good wheeze, which it is. But - and this is a big but - it achieves moments of pathos, particularly with Miss Honey's backstory. It transpires that Miss Trunchbull is her aunt, and her primary caregiver after her beloved father Magnus died (actually murdered by the Trunchbull). While the original focuses on Matilda's magnificent revenge, here we're shown the horror and loneliness of Miss Honey's situation. Magnus is more than a chalk outline this time - it turns out the tragic story Matilda has been recounting to the town librarian is the true story of Miss Honey's family. My initial reaction was annoyance ("This wasn't in the book!"), but once I guessed the identity of the Escapologist, I didn't mind, and in fact welcomed the change. The musical isn't alone in giving him a bigger role: Miss Honey reminisces about him at length in the film, and Matilda "haunts" the Trunchbull by moving his portrait around. It leads us to appreciate what Miss Honey has lost, as well as what Matilda has never had.
Which adaptation is better, film or musical? The musical has touches you could only get away with on stage: its inventive sets, casting adults as the big kids, probably the best rendition of the Pigtails Incident. And where else could you have villains bursting into song about their misguided philosophies?
In its favour, the film is more low key and realistic (if such a word can be used here), coaxing naturalistic performances from its child stars. Pam Ferris, best known for playing mumsy British eccentrics, has a whale of a time as the Trunchbull. Her bloodthirsty exclamation of "Fresh meat!" as the new kids file in makes you laugh and shudder. As for Embeth Davidtz, not only is she the most toothsome version of Miss Honey to date, she captures both her insecurity and her gentleness; this would be most people's dream teacher. You want to pick up and cuddle the poor poppet. Despite unnecessary padding (did Harry have to be investigated by the FBI?), it remains the best Dahl film so far, with a 90% Fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes.
November 12, 2014
Uncovered: Why book covers matter
Recently I reserved Mrs Miniver from my town library. A portrait of British upper middle class life in the months before the Second World War, it's as fresh and funny as when it first appeared. President Roosevelt famously told Jan Struther that her stories had hastened America's involvement in the war. I've loved the book since I read it on one of the interminable rainy days of my childhood; I still call the unfavourite half of a couple 'the B-side' or visiting old haunts 'doing a Mole' in homage. The first thing to attract me was the cover: a pretty woman with flyaway hair gazing up at a sky full of spitfires. It captures its essence perfectly.
So you can understand my dismay when, picking it up last Thursday, the library copy showed a frumpy hausfrau in apron and headscarf, scowling into the distance. Not my philosophical, whimsical Caroline Miniver! If I'd seen this cover on that market stall years ago, I wouldn't have spared it a second glance.
People love to quote that banal adage "You can't judge a book by its cover", missing the point that it's about judging your fellow man, not your reading matter. When it comes to picking your next book, it's as pertinent as ever.
Here are the top four reasons why a decent, relevant cover are crucial.
1) Bad covers make a book look amateur
Self published authors have a formidable task ahead of them. As complete unknowns they're pitting their untested product against household names with publishing houses and marketing gurus behind them. They've polished their prose, written a sexy blurb and uploaded the novel onto Amazon. Surely the hard part is over?
Just as it's best to entrust your MS to a professional proofreader, you should invest in a cover artist who knows what they're doing. Blatantly Photoshopped pictures or stock images don't cut it. You need something classy and eye catching that looks equally good as a thumbnail, or in black and white. Otherwise potential readers will say, "Meh, hack job -" the last thing you want to hear.
2) They can mislead readers
I'm a huge du Maurier fan, yet I didn't read her until I was thirteen. Such abstinence seems bizarre - until you consider how her covers used to look. All the copies in our house dated from the Sixties and seemed to show women with plunging necklines flapping around country estates. I came away with the impression they were trashy romances and gave them a wide berth. A far cry from the menacing psychological fare her fans know and love!
When selecting a cover, do your research. Find out what's typical of your genre, what works. Just sticking a castle on the front won't do the trick - it might be a fantasy, but then again it could be a historical saga or travel guide. Don't imitate too closely, however; you don't want to be written off as bland or derivative.
3) It confuses or bores the reader
The trouble with writing a book is that you know it inside out, and fondly imagine that a still from the story is pregnant with meaning. The original cover of The Revenge of Rose Grubb unwisely focused on such a moment, meaning diddley squat to the billions of people who haven't read it. I applied to the good folks of Goodreads, asking why it wasn't shifting; they kindly put me in the picture. The way they saw it, the cover belonged on a cookery book, not a urban fantasy cum revenge tragedy. The image didn't convey anything to them so their eyes slid straight past it.
Covers need to speak a language that a browsing reader can immediately understand. Monica Nolan's books are a brilliant example. Modern pastiches of Fifties lesbian pulp, the covers hijack the old suggestive imagery: pneumatic secretaries with bee stung lips, leery cougars in twinsets. You look at one and know exactly what you're getting.
4) They can be hilarious
Back when I was a copywriter, I was asked to write a blog about science fiction dystopias. I thought I'd include a few covers from the date of publication - and unwittingly embarked upon a new hobby.
There are few things as side splitting as a cover that not only fails but plummets through a black hole to another realm entirely. My favourite is the early cover for 1984 , with the clunkiest symbolism and sluttiest Julia you're ever likely to see, but even that doesn't reach the heights (or depths) of idiocy of Chewitt monster dragons, David Cameron pursued by the Hound of the Baskervilles and a farmer looking at his livestock and proclaiming, "Everything I want to do is illegal!"
If ever you fancy a belly laugh, put "awful covers" into a search engine and marvel at the non sequiturs that come up. It's the gift that never stops giving.
So you can understand my dismay when, picking it up last Thursday, the library copy showed a frumpy hausfrau in apron and headscarf, scowling into the distance. Not my philosophical, whimsical Caroline Miniver! If I'd seen this cover on that market stall years ago, I wouldn't have spared it a second glance.
People love to quote that banal adage "You can't judge a book by its cover", missing the point that it's about judging your fellow man, not your reading matter. When it comes to picking your next book, it's as pertinent as ever.
Here are the top four reasons why a decent, relevant cover are crucial.
1) Bad covers make a book look amateur
Self published authors have a formidable task ahead of them. As complete unknowns they're pitting their untested product against household names with publishing houses and marketing gurus behind them. They've polished their prose, written a sexy blurb and uploaded the novel onto Amazon. Surely the hard part is over?
Just as it's best to entrust your MS to a professional proofreader, you should invest in a cover artist who knows what they're doing. Blatantly Photoshopped pictures or stock images don't cut it. You need something classy and eye catching that looks equally good as a thumbnail, or in black and white. Otherwise potential readers will say, "Meh, hack job -" the last thing you want to hear.
2) They can mislead readers
I'm a huge du Maurier fan, yet I didn't read her until I was thirteen. Such abstinence seems bizarre - until you consider how her covers used to look. All the copies in our house dated from the Sixties and seemed to show women with plunging necklines flapping around country estates. I came away with the impression they were trashy romances and gave them a wide berth. A far cry from the menacing psychological fare her fans know and love!
When selecting a cover, do your research. Find out what's typical of your genre, what works. Just sticking a castle on the front won't do the trick - it might be a fantasy, but then again it could be a historical saga or travel guide. Don't imitate too closely, however; you don't want to be written off as bland or derivative.
3) It confuses or bores the reader
The trouble with writing a book is that you know it inside out, and fondly imagine that a still from the story is pregnant with meaning. The original cover of The Revenge of Rose Grubb unwisely focused on such a moment, meaning diddley squat to the billions of people who haven't read it. I applied to the good folks of Goodreads, asking why it wasn't shifting; they kindly put me in the picture. The way they saw it, the cover belonged on a cookery book, not a urban fantasy cum revenge tragedy. The image didn't convey anything to them so their eyes slid straight past it.
Covers need to speak a language that a browsing reader can immediately understand. Monica Nolan's books are a brilliant example. Modern pastiches of Fifties lesbian pulp, the covers hijack the old suggestive imagery: pneumatic secretaries with bee stung lips, leery cougars in twinsets. You look at one and know exactly what you're getting.
4) They can be hilarious
Back when I was a copywriter, I was asked to write a blog about science fiction dystopias. I thought I'd include a few covers from the date of publication - and unwittingly embarked upon a new hobby.
There are few things as side splitting as a cover that not only fails but plummets through a black hole to another realm entirely. My favourite is the early cover for 1984 , with the clunkiest symbolism and sluttiest Julia you're ever likely to see, but even that doesn't reach the heights (or depths) of idiocy of Chewitt monster dragons, David Cameron pursued by the Hound of the Baskervilles and a farmer looking at his livestock and proclaiming, "Everything I want to do is illegal!"
If ever you fancy a belly laugh, put "awful covers" into a search engine and marvel at the non sequiturs that come up. It's the gift that never stops giving.
October 18, 2014
Favourite Genres: Girls' School Stories
(I've hit upon a sensible solution for the blogs. Rather than write one every week, which was an insane amount of work and distracted me from my primary goal, i.e. completing my current novel, I'll write one whenever I feel moved. There will still be regular updates on my Facebook page and Twitter feed).
Every reader has a pet genre that they'll deny if asked about it, but indulge to their heart's content. Numerous generations of my family enjoyed what I'll call, for want of a better phrase, sex and pirates; others prefer the 'paranormal being starts up a detective agency' subgenre (vampires being the likeliest candidates for this career move). Mine is girls' school stories with an edge.
The genesis seems clear enough. I'd inherited boxes of my mum and grandma's books, meaning oodles of plucky working class girls winning scholarships to celebrated private or boarding schools. They must have been heady fantasies for girls destined for their local comp. Then I achieved one of these coveted 'assisted places' (as they were known) and learned it was no laughing matter.
The conventional school story, as produced by Elinor Brent Dyer or Enid Blyton by the bucketload, is one of comforting predictability. Heroines are hardworking and honest, desperate to conform; there may be the odd wildcard with delusions but she's always squelched by the story's end. God help you if you ever crossed Joey Bettany, Brent Dyer's author avatar! Anyone who tried it would be forced to publicly recant and reduced to a pathetic, snivelling wreck. (Only confirming my suspicion that Joey was in fact the Anti Christ).
As I grew older and discovered that life in girls' schools wasn't all jolly hockey sticks and house points - was, in fact, a hothouse of injustice and emotion, I sought out books that told the truth about these institutions. Though it's years since the prison gates clanged shut - and years since my schooldays were laid to rest with Rose Grubb - it remains one of my guilty pleasures, and the one I automatically identify with.
Here are three of the best the genre has to offer. Whether you like sinister nuns, passionate vampires or sapphic school mistresses, there's something for everyone.
Frost in May by Antonia White
Frost in May scores points for being barely distinguishable from the "traditional" school story - at first glance. I first read it aged nine, and completely missed its undercurrents. It's only when you read it as an adult that you find yourself outraged by the nuns' mind games and dictatorial rulings on class and sex. (The heroine is reprimanded for admiring her friend's eyes, for crying out loud!)
The story is short and simply told. Nanda goes to school at the Convent of Four Wounds to please her starchy convert father. Unfortunately she's too stubborn and individual to submit to their brainwashing, and is eventually expelled for writing a "dirty" book. (Bear in mind she's only fourteen, and has no idea what these "nameless depravities" actually are). It contains the chilling statement that "no human will is any good unless it has been broken and reset in God's own way." Brr.
No Talking After Lights by Angela Lambert
One of the first 'adult' school stories I read, it's notable for having three perspectives: Constance the bookish, despised new girl; Henrietta the genteel headmistress, nursing her dying husband - and Sylvia the Biology teacher. Sylvia is a monster, a predatory lesbian who lusts after Hermione, the prettiest girl in school (but also one of the most vapid). It goes without saying that she is the reason why I've read this book so many times.
The action covers a single term at the less than top drawer boarding school. Who is committing all the thefts? Will Constance make any friends? Will Sylvia seduce Hermione? The story cleverly keeps you guessing.
The Moth Diaries by Rachel Klein
The Moth Diaries is the only entry where the characters are the same age as its intended audience, i.e. sixteen. Don't let that, or the execrable film starring Lily Cole, put you off.
Our nameless diarist has been at boarding school for a year. She is best friends with sweet, saccharine Lucy, who she possibly loves. (She refuses to admit she's gay, though). Everything changes when Ernessa, a moody sophisticate from Austria, turns up. She steals Lucy, which is bad enough, but the narrator's course on the supernatural raises disturbing questions. Could Ernessa be a vampire?
Honourable mentions go to:
The Wives of Bath by Susan Swan - Very loosely adapted as Lost and Delirious, this is a story about first love, gender identity and a terrible crime.
Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay - The subject of one of Australia's most acclaimed art house films. A group of schoolgirls and their teacher vanish without trace on a picnic, shattering their community.
Cracks by Sheila Kohler - When schoolgirl rivalries and inappropriate teacher/student relationships collide. The film version (starring Eva Green) is superior.
Every reader has a pet genre that they'll deny if asked about it, but indulge to their heart's content. Numerous generations of my family enjoyed what I'll call, for want of a better phrase, sex and pirates; others prefer the 'paranormal being starts up a detective agency' subgenre (vampires being the likeliest candidates for this career move). Mine is girls' school stories with an edge.
The genesis seems clear enough. I'd inherited boxes of my mum and grandma's books, meaning oodles of plucky working class girls winning scholarships to celebrated private or boarding schools. They must have been heady fantasies for girls destined for their local comp. Then I achieved one of these coveted 'assisted places' (as they were known) and learned it was no laughing matter.
The conventional school story, as produced by Elinor Brent Dyer or Enid Blyton by the bucketload, is one of comforting predictability. Heroines are hardworking and honest, desperate to conform; there may be the odd wildcard with delusions but she's always squelched by the story's end. God help you if you ever crossed Joey Bettany, Brent Dyer's author avatar! Anyone who tried it would be forced to publicly recant and reduced to a pathetic, snivelling wreck. (Only confirming my suspicion that Joey was in fact the Anti Christ).
As I grew older and discovered that life in girls' schools wasn't all jolly hockey sticks and house points - was, in fact, a hothouse of injustice and emotion, I sought out books that told the truth about these institutions. Though it's years since the prison gates clanged shut - and years since my schooldays were laid to rest with Rose Grubb - it remains one of my guilty pleasures, and the one I automatically identify with.
Here are three of the best the genre has to offer. Whether you like sinister nuns, passionate vampires or sapphic school mistresses, there's something for everyone.
Frost in May by Antonia White
Frost in May scores points for being barely distinguishable from the "traditional" school story - at first glance. I first read it aged nine, and completely missed its undercurrents. It's only when you read it as an adult that you find yourself outraged by the nuns' mind games and dictatorial rulings on class and sex. (The heroine is reprimanded for admiring her friend's eyes, for crying out loud!)
The story is short and simply told. Nanda goes to school at the Convent of Four Wounds to please her starchy convert father. Unfortunately she's too stubborn and individual to submit to their brainwashing, and is eventually expelled for writing a "dirty" book. (Bear in mind she's only fourteen, and has no idea what these "nameless depravities" actually are). It contains the chilling statement that "no human will is any good unless it has been broken and reset in God's own way." Brr.
No Talking After Lights by Angela Lambert
One of the first 'adult' school stories I read, it's notable for having three perspectives: Constance the bookish, despised new girl; Henrietta the genteel headmistress, nursing her dying husband - and Sylvia the Biology teacher. Sylvia is a monster, a predatory lesbian who lusts after Hermione, the prettiest girl in school (but also one of the most vapid). It goes without saying that she is the reason why I've read this book so many times.
The action covers a single term at the less than top drawer boarding school. Who is committing all the thefts? Will Constance make any friends? Will Sylvia seduce Hermione? The story cleverly keeps you guessing.
The Moth Diaries by Rachel Klein
The Moth Diaries is the only entry where the characters are the same age as its intended audience, i.e. sixteen. Don't let that, or the execrable film starring Lily Cole, put you off.
Our nameless diarist has been at boarding school for a year. She is best friends with sweet, saccharine Lucy, who she possibly loves. (She refuses to admit she's gay, though). Everything changes when Ernessa, a moody sophisticate from Austria, turns up. She steals Lucy, which is bad enough, but the narrator's course on the supernatural raises disturbing questions. Could Ernessa be a vampire?
Honourable mentions go to:
The Wives of Bath by Susan Swan - Very loosely adapted as Lost and Delirious, this is a story about first love, gender identity and a terrible crime.
Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay - The subject of one of Australia's most acclaimed art house films. A group of schoolgirls and their teacher vanish without trace on a picnic, shattering their community.
Cracks by Sheila Kohler - When schoolgirl rivalries and inappropriate teacher/student relationships collide. The film version (starring Eva Green) is superior.
August 27, 2014
Taking a break
I'm taking a few months' rest from writing the blogs while I focus on getting my current book finished. Not to worry, I'll still be on Goodreads, and be back with (hopefully) bigger and better pieces soon.
August 24, 2014
Hurrah for Sarah Waters!
I can remember exactly what I was doing when I first encountered Sarah Waters. I was studying for my A Levels and, home alone, channel hopping on the TV one night. Nothing appealed. Every other programme seemed to be a period drama, which glutted the air waves in those days to saturation point. Mincing women proclaiming their love to men with mutton chops? You could keep them.
If only there could be a costume drama for lesbians. It was such a waste of frisson: something about a woman unhooking her lover from her corset struck me as unbearably erotic. I clicked the remote. Two attractive women in Victorian dress, kissing hungrily in a shadowy carriage. Never has a wish been so speedily granted. Slack jawed, I watched the rest of the episode - Tipping the Velvet, it was called. I bought the novel on my way home the next day.
Since that bawdy, freewheeling debut (Waters has jokingly described it as a 'Victorian lesbo romp'), she has written several acclaimed novels: Affinity, Fingersmith, The Night Watch and The Little Stranger. Her latest, The Paying Guests, is due out on August 28th. Fans have been promised that it's a return to form; while The Little Stranger was a tremendous mainstream success, there was a disappointment at the lack of sapphism and suggestions she had sold out. There's no denying her popularity and influence; of her five novels, only The Little Stranger has yet to be filmed (though Hollywood bigwigs are said to be interested).
Waters satisfies on numerous levels. More than a gimmick or titillation, her largely lesbian casts and themes have given an audience who aren't generally represented stories they can relate to, heroines they can root for. Her women aren't the pitiful freaks or two dimensional bit parts from older works but placed front and centre. Nor are they sickly sweet paragons: Kitty Butler is a coward who marries for appearance's sake; Helen Giniver cheats on her girlfriend with a glamorous frenemy. Butches are shown in dashing, charismatic roles rather than as objects of censure; Kay and her best friend Mickey do sterling work on the ambulances during the war.
Another reason why she stands out: she can actually write. Lesbian readers previously made do with tawdry pulps, where racy covers were let down by flat, uninspiring contents. Her style is lyrical but accessible: she deftly captures a variety of different worlds, whether the hot lights and grease paint of the music hall, the dank squalor of Millbank prison or the mundane horror of a private lunatic asylum. Hundreds Hall is practically a character in its own right. As for narrative: while the bulk of her stories are told in first person, each character is carefully delineated. You would never confuse the streetwise thief Sue Trinder with her neurotic upper class lover Maud Lily, for example.
Above all, they're fantastic stories, with as many twists and turns as the Victorian novels that inspired them - or the grit and detail of a Greene. As someone who has long loved women in prison narratives and been fascinated by mediums, Affinity is the answer to a prayer; anyone who saw the potential of The Well of Loneliness but was frustrated by its doom and gloom should give The Night Watch a go. There are romances you can cheer, villains you can boo. They're engrossing reads whatever your orientation.
In fact, that is Sarah Waters' chief contribution: she has proved that there is a market for lesbian fiction, and not simply in the arenas you'd expect. Now it's worthy for inclusion on prime time TV; it's no longer stuffed away in dodgy backrooms but pride of place in bookshops. She deserves our eternal gratitude.
If only there could be a costume drama for lesbians. It was such a waste of frisson: something about a woman unhooking her lover from her corset struck me as unbearably erotic. I clicked the remote. Two attractive women in Victorian dress, kissing hungrily in a shadowy carriage. Never has a wish been so speedily granted. Slack jawed, I watched the rest of the episode - Tipping the Velvet, it was called. I bought the novel on my way home the next day.
Since that bawdy, freewheeling debut (Waters has jokingly described it as a 'Victorian lesbo romp'), she has written several acclaimed novels: Affinity, Fingersmith, The Night Watch and The Little Stranger. Her latest, The Paying Guests, is due out on August 28th. Fans have been promised that it's a return to form; while The Little Stranger was a tremendous mainstream success, there was a disappointment at the lack of sapphism and suggestions she had sold out. There's no denying her popularity and influence; of her five novels, only The Little Stranger has yet to be filmed (though Hollywood bigwigs are said to be interested).
Waters satisfies on numerous levels. More than a gimmick or titillation, her largely lesbian casts and themes have given an audience who aren't generally represented stories they can relate to, heroines they can root for. Her women aren't the pitiful freaks or two dimensional bit parts from older works but placed front and centre. Nor are they sickly sweet paragons: Kitty Butler is a coward who marries for appearance's sake; Helen Giniver cheats on her girlfriend with a glamorous frenemy. Butches are shown in dashing, charismatic roles rather than as objects of censure; Kay and her best friend Mickey do sterling work on the ambulances during the war.
Another reason why she stands out: she can actually write. Lesbian readers previously made do with tawdry pulps, where racy covers were let down by flat, uninspiring contents. Her style is lyrical but accessible: she deftly captures a variety of different worlds, whether the hot lights and grease paint of the music hall, the dank squalor of Millbank prison or the mundane horror of a private lunatic asylum. Hundreds Hall is practically a character in its own right. As for narrative: while the bulk of her stories are told in first person, each character is carefully delineated. You would never confuse the streetwise thief Sue Trinder with her neurotic upper class lover Maud Lily, for example.
Above all, they're fantastic stories, with as many twists and turns as the Victorian novels that inspired them - or the grit and detail of a Greene. As someone who has long loved women in prison narratives and been fascinated by mediums, Affinity is the answer to a prayer; anyone who saw the potential of The Well of Loneliness but was frustrated by its doom and gloom should give The Night Watch a go. There are romances you can cheer, villains you can boo. They're engrossing reads whatever your orientation.
In fact, that is Sarah Waters' chief contribution: she has proved that there is a market for lesbian fiction, and not simply in the arenas you'd expect. Now it's worthy for inclusion on prime time TV; it's no longer stuffed away in dodgy backrooms but pride of place in bookshops. She deserves our eternal gratitude.
August 17, 2014
Representation of women in popular franchises
As a fact junkie, I like to have two books on the go: the obligatory novel but also something non fiction. My non-fic book right now is Laura Bates's Everyday Sexism - and believe me, it doesn't make comfortable reading.
The chapter I'm currently reading examines female representation in girls' toys and magazines; the ubiquity of pink, princesses and Aryan appearance. Horrified by the lack of positive role models and diversity, I couldn't help but wonder: is the landscape all that different once they've grown up?
Exhibit A : Buffy Summers, protagonist of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She's smart, tough, knows her own worth and has beaten hundreds of paranormal beings. Although she often has a boyfriend - brooding vampire with a soul Angel, military lunkhead Riley - she puts her friends and family first. She's a proactive yet flawed character who proves a female lead can be every bit as heroic as her male predecessors.
Exhibit B: Bella Swan, protagonist of Twilight. She is the daughter of amicably divorced parents; she - what exactly does she do again? Bitches, whines, mopes and judges everyone around her. Amidst this packed schedule she finds time to fall in love with Edward Cullen, the only boy she deems worthy. Surprise surprise, Edward and his gorgeous, gifted family are vampires, though not the pernicious bloodsuckers of lore. (Indeed if Meyer had called them aliens or pixies, it would've made a heck of a lot more sense).
Bella is apparently amazing and special, despite this never being substantiated, and doing precisely nothing for the entire series. Even once she (least spoilerish spoiler ever) becomes a vampire, she is absolutely useless, and adored by all.
Imagine for a moment that you're completely unacquainted with teen culture from 1996 to the present. Reading these synopses, you'd be forgiven for believing that Twilight is a supernatural Fifties sitcom (a Bewitched rip off?) while Buffy, with its feminist credentials, is bang up to date. Depressingly, Buffy staked her last vamp in the mid 2000s. Bella is the purported role model for today's young women, spawning numerous imitators. Ana Steele, star of Fifty Shades of Gray? Bella as a Lit graduate, with similar codependency issues. (Who knows why - her paramour Christian is an even bigger creeper). Katniss Everdeen, semi psychotic "tribute" from The Hunger Games? Yes, she's stronger and more resilient than Bella, and a mean hunter to boot, but spends too much time dithering over her two beaux.
Nor does the outlook improve when you go elsewhere. Doctor Who was always the story of a man with a magical box, but his companions (the demeaning phrase "assistant" has been binned), tended to be bright, spirited women with lives outside their adventures. Since the revival, one companion after another has fallen for him, making him the centre of their world. Once or twice you can understand, but virtually every time? No man is that irresistible.
That is, unless he's the lead in a Steven Moffat franchise. His floppy haired, big collared misanthropes have two chief characteristics: overweening arrogance and babe magnetism. (That may well be why Tintin languishes in development hell; there is no way he can shoehorn these qualities onto the decent, compassionate and asexual boy reporter). Women in his shows are rarely more than plot devices, but one thing is certain - they'll be pulled into the hero's orbit before long.
Remember Irene Adler, the "Woman" of Sherlock Holmes fame? In canon, she outwits Holmes and her controlling ex, the King of Bohemia, so she can marry a humble solicitor. The reason for this mésalliance? Her new husband treats her with love and respect - unlike the King, who has had her stalked and burgled across Europe. In the Sherlock rewrite, "adventuress" translates as "lesbian dominatrix" - only her sexuality is miraculously forgotten when she meets Sherlock! If that's not offensive enough, she isn't even acting under her own steam: an agent of Moriarty, she's later rescued from execution by - you guessed it - Sherlock! Somehow a TV show from the Noughties manages to be more sexist and objectionable than a story from the 19th century.
Somehow, somewhere, writers have come to equate female strength with so-called "wiles", reducing women to sexy but disposable objects. Even the maligned Mary Sue - the sickeningly perfect female character so prevalent in fan fic - doesn't escape censure. An idealised woman is just as insulting and unreal as a pretty finger puppet; the incessant harping on how unusual she is makes female attainment seem like a fluke. Can you imagine a story where they kept commenting on a character's race or religion in this way?
It's shocking and saddening that the legions of female protagonists who should have followed Buffy have failed to materialise. What's stopping this generation of writers from creating fantastic heroines? Never mind the roulette of super powered guys in dodgy costumes; let's come up with women who are more than the stock figures of maiden, mother and crone. Why the hell should a woman have to choose between a fulfilling life in the real world and a man, a la Bella? She should be able to have it all.
The chapter I'm currently reading examines female representation in girls' toys and magazines; the ubiquity of pink, princesses and Aryan appearance. Horrified by the lack of positive role models and diversity, I couldn't help but wonder: is the landscape all that different once they've grown up?
Exhibit A : Buffy Summers, protagonist of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She's smart, tough, knows her own worth and has beaten hundreds of paranormal beings. Although she often has a boyfriend - brooding vampire with a soul Angel, military lunkhead Riley - she puts her friends and family first. She's a proactive yet flawed character who proves a female lead can be every bit as heroic as her male predecessors.
Exhibit B: Bella Swan, protagonist of Twilight. She is the daughter of amicably divorced parents; she - what exactly does she do again? Bitches, whines, mopes and judges everyone around her. Amidst this packed schedule she finds time to fall in love with Edward Cullen, the only boy she deems worthy. Surprise surprise, Edward and his gorgeous, gifted family are vampires, though not the pernicious bloodsuckers of lore. (Indeed if Meyer had called them aliens or pixies, it would've made a heck of a lot more sense).
Bella is apparently amazing and special, despite this never being substantiated, and doing precisely nothing for the entire series. Even once she (least spoilerish spoiler ever) becomes a vampire, she is absolutely useless, and adored by all.
Imagine for a moment that you're completely unacquainted with teen culture from 1996 to the present. Reading these synopses, you'd be forgiven for believing that Twilight is a supernatural Fifties sitcom (a Bewitched rip off?) while Buffy, with its feminist credentials, is bang up to date. Depressingly, Buffy staked her last vamp in the mid 2000s. Bella is the purported role model for today's young women, spawning numerous imitators. Ana Steele, star of Fifty Shades of Gray? Bella as a Lit graduate, with similar codependency issues. (Who knows why - her paramour Christian is an even bigger creeper). Katniss Everdeen, semi psychotic "tribute" from The Hunger Games? Yes, she's stronger and more resilient than Bella, and a mean hunter to boot, but spends too much time dithering over her two beaux.
Nor does the outlook improve when you go elsewhere. Doctor Who was always the story of a man with a magical box, but his companions (the demeaning phrase "assistant" has been binned), tended to be bright, spirited women with lives outside their adventures. Since the revival, one companion after another has fallen for him, making him the centre of their world. Once or twice you can understand, but virtually every time? No man is that irresistible.
That is, unless he's the lead in a Steven Moffat franchise. His floppy haired, big collared misanthropes have two chief characteristics: overweening arrogance and babe magnetism. (That may well be why Tintin languishes in development hell; there is no way he can shoehorn these qualities onto the decent, compassionate and asexual boy reporter). Women in his shows are rarely more than plot devices, but one thing is certain - they'll be pulled into the hero's orbit before long.
Remember Irene Adler, the "Woman" of Sherlock Holmes fame? In canon, she outwits Holmes and her controlling ex, the King of Bohemia, so she can marry a humble solicitor. The reason for this mésalliance? Her new husband treats her with love and respect - unlike the King, who has had her stalked and burgled across Europe. In the Sherlock rewrite, "adventuress" translates as "lesbian dominatrix" - only her sexuality is miraculously forgotten when she meets Sherlock! If that's not offensive enough, she isn't even acting under her own steam: an agent of Moriarty, she's later rescued from execution by - you guessed it - Sherlock! Somehow a TV show from the Noughties manages to be more sexist and objectionable than a story from the 19th century.
Somehow, somewhere, writers have come to equate female strength with so-called "wiles", reducing women to sexy but disposable objects. Even the maligned Mary Sue - the sickeningly perfect female character so prevalent in fan fic - doesn't escape censure. An idealised woman is just as insulting and unreal as a pretty finger puppet; the incessant harping on how unusual she is makes female attainment seem like a fluke. Can you imagine a story where they kept commenting on a character's race or religion in this way?
It's shocking and saddening that the legions of female protagonists who should have followed Buffy have failed to materialise. What's stopping this generation of writers from creating fantastic heroines? Never mind the roulette of super powered guys in dodgy costumes; let's come up with women who are more than the stock figures of maiden, mother and crone. Why the hell should a woman have to choose between a fulfilling life in the real world and a man, a la Bella? She should be able to have it all.
August 9, 2014
Spin Off City
Last week being my birthday, I received the customary £20 from my mum. Although a well stocked Kindle means I rarely buy print books, I was willing to make an exception; you don't turn 29 every day. I took myself down to Waterstones, hoping, as always, that an unknown treasure would hurl itself off the shelf at me.
I stared at the best seller list, aghast. Was this really all there was to choose from? Icky crime procedurals, the latest B&Q erotica and spin offs?
I can't be alone in my deep mistrust of spin off books. It may be that there's more sophisticated reasoning behind it, but it does look suspiciously as though the author thought, 'I really can't be bothered coming up with my own plot and characters, so I'll ransack somebody else's.' In order to justify this pillage, they swoop upon some as yet untapped angle: the story set in space, from the perspective of the meths drinking villain, with vampires and werewolves chucked in (I needn't tell you I hold this particular trend in disdain). It doesn't help they're always overhauling the same elite club of books - mainly Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre, but occasionally Dickens too. Many of these books are cynically geared towards women, as though we can't handle original plots.
Here are the various shades of spin off available, sublime and ridiculous alike.
The literary spin off
An endangered species, kept in captivity before it dies out altogether. Personally I can only think of two with clout: Wide Sargasso Sea and Rebecca, both reworkings of Jane Eyre.
The two authors have a similar axe to grind: Rochester's misappropriation as romantic hero, when he's guilty of some truly reprehensible acts. I've always had a problematic relationship with the novel; not only do I look down on the "saintly servant tames bastard master" trope, which it popularised, but I hate the bigoted suggestion that as a mixed race lunatic, Bertha Mason deserves neither sympathy nor redemption.
So what did these very different authors do with the same material?
Rhys attempts to give Bertha a backstory and a voice: she's reimagined as Antoinette Cosway, a beautiful Creole heiress growing up in Jamaica after the Emancipation. These early scenes, where Rhys is free to invent, are lushly written and convincing. But as soon as Rochester (he's never explicitly named) appears, she's hamstrung by the original. If you've read Jane Eyre, it's frustrating; if you haven't, it's practically unintelligible.
As an angry young woman who gibed against gender roles, du Maurier focused upon Jane Eyre's most disturbing tenet: a powerful man can do whatever he likes with his wife; her role is to be meek and subservient. As a reckless, promiscuous bisexual, Rebecca broke the accepted mould, and had to die. Mrs de Winter's perfectly happy with a life of unquestioning obedience, expecting precious little in return.
Something borrowed
A modern novel is like the London Underground, with interweaving plot strands, characters and themes. It's very easy to get lost. Since older books are more episodic, a common way to pay homage is to give nods to a classic. It's a successful strategy all round: harking back enhances and enriches the new novel, but it remains a distinct stand alone piece in its own right.
As a critique of the Nineties dating scene with a love interest called Mr Darcy, Bridget Jones's Diary owes more than a little to Pride and Prejudice; with a feisty school teacher pining for the local squire, a mad wife the least of his worries, South Riding is indebted to Jane Eyre. Sometimes a work can be highly coloured by a predecessor but a stonking good read; try Wise Children, Angela Carter's last, most rambunctious novel. This picaresque life of Dora Chance, former music hall dancer and good time girl, borrows ingeniously from each of Shakespeare's plays. With good reason: her no goodnik of a father, Sir Melchior Hazard, is that world's Larry Olivier.
Affectionate parodies
If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, a warm send up is the highest praise. I had the surreal experience recently of reading a play about E W Hornung's Raffles, written by Graham Greene. Ending years of sniggers and speculation, it boldly declares Raffles and Bunny to be a couple, and the outlandish plot - they're burgling the Marquis of Queensbury on Bosie Douglas's orders - has its tongue firmly rooted in its cheek. Aficionados can chuckle at the references, newbies can enjoy the farce.
Indeed, I'm extremely fond of characters behaving in unexpected ways. Check out the Thursday Next series, where you see Miss Havisham drag racing Toad, or the cast of Wuthering Heights having a counselling session. It's the sort of good natured ribbing you can only get away with if you're close to the recipient. Lost in Austen, where a Pride and Prejudice fan gets marooned inside the book, is a similar slice of meta silliness. I loved the idea of Miss Bingley as a bitchy closet case - and Mrs Bennet as a scary mama bear!
... And the rest
Perhaps I'm making a sweeping generalisation here, but my heart can't help but sink when I discover yet another version of this or that classic with added sex/robots/ninjas/aliens. I know I'm hardly one to talk - left to my own devices in a museum gift shop, I soon had Julius Caesar fighting a dragon outside a phone box, his getaway Mini close by - but it makes you want to stretch your ears and yowl.
Is this really the future of publishing? Wanton vandalism of somebody else's text? Regency murder mysteries and life below stairs in a stately home are all well and good, but you shouldn't have to get there by piggybacking on the success of other writers.
I stared at the best seller list, aghast. Was this really all there was to choose from? Icky crime procedurals, the latest B&Q erotica and spin offs?
I can't be alone in my deep mistrust of spin off books. It may be that there's more sophisticated reasoning behind it, but it does look suspiciously as though the author thought, 'I really can't be bothered coming up with my own plot and characters, so I'll ransack somebody else's.' In order to justify this pillage, they swoop upon some as yet untapped angle: the story set in space, from the perspective of the meths drinking villain, with vampires and werewolves chucked in (I needn't tell you I hold this particular trend in disdain). It doesn't help they're always overhauling the same elite club of books - mainly Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre, but occasionally Dickens too. Many of these books are cynically geared towards women, as though we can't handle original plots.
Here are the various shades of spin off available, sublime and ridiculous alike.
The literary spin off
An endangered species, kept in captivity before it dies out altogether. Personally I can only think of two with clout: Wide Sargasso Sea and Rebecca, both reworkings of Jane Eyre.
The two authors have a similar axe to grind: Rochester's misappropriation as romantic hero, when he's guilty of some truly reprehensible acts. I've always had a problematic relationship with the novel; not only do I look down on the "saintly servant tames bastard master" trope, which it popularised, but I hate the bigoted suggestion that as a mixed race lunatic, Bertha Mason deserves neither sympathy nor redemption.
So what did these very different authors do with the same material?
Rhys attempts to give Bertha a backstory and a voice: she's reimagined as Antoinette Cosway, a beautiful Creole heiress growing up in Jamaica after the Emancipation. These early scenes, where Rhys is free to invent, are lushly written and convincing. But as soon as Rochester (he's never explicitly named) appears, she's hamstrung by the original. If you've read Jane Eyre, it's frustrating; if you haven't, it's practically unintelligible.
As an angry young woman who gibed against gender roles, du Maurier focused upon Jane Eyre's most disturbing tenet: a powerful man can do whatever he likes with his wife; her role is to be meek and subservient. As a reckless, promiscuous bisexual, Rebecca broke the accepted mould, and had to die. Mrs de Winter's perfectly happy with a life of unquestioning obedience, expecting precious little in return.
Something borrowed
A modern novel is like the London Underground, with interweaving plot strands, characters and themes. It's very easy to get lost. Since older books are more episodic, a common way to pay homage is to give nods to a classic. It's a successful strategy all round: harking back enhances and enriches the new novel, but it remains a distinct stand alone piece in its own right.
As a critique of the Nineties dating scene with a love interest called Mr Darcy, Bridget Jones's Diary owes more than a little to Pride and Prejudice; with a feisty school teacher pining for the local squire, a mad wife the least of his worries, South Riding is indebted to Jane Eyre. Sometimes a work can be highly coloured by a predecessor but a stonking good read; try Wise Children, Angela Carter's last, most rambunctious novel. This picaresque life of Dora Chance, former music hall dancer and good time girl, borrows ingeniously from each of Shakespeare's plays. With good reason: her no goodnik of a father, Sir Melchior Hazard, is that world's Larry Olivier.
Affectionate parodies
If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, a warm send up is the highest praise. I had the surreal experience recently of reading a play about E W Hornung's Raffles, written by Graham Greene. Ending years of sniggers and speculation, it boldly declares Raffles and Bunny to be a couple, and the outlandish plot - they're burgling the Marquis of Queensbury on Bosie Douglas's orders - has its tongue firmly rooted in its cheek. Aficionados can chuckle at the references, newbies can enjoy the farce.
Indeed, I'm extremely fond of characters behaving in unexpected ways. Check out the Thursday Next series, where you see Miss Havisham drag racing Toad, or the cast of Wuthering Heights having a counselling session. It's the sort of good natured ribbing you can only get away with if you're close to the recipient. Lost in Austen, where a Pride and Prejudice fan gets marooned inside the book, is a similar slice of meta silliness. I loved the idea of Miss Bingley as a bitchy closet case - and Mrs Bennet as a scary mama bear!
... And the rest
Perhaps I'm making a sweeping generalisation here, but my heart can't help but sink when I discover yet another version of this or that classic with added sex/robots/ninjas/aliens. I know I'm hardly one to talk - left to my own devices in a museum gift shop, I soon had Julius Caesar fighting a dragon outside a phone box, his getaway Mini close by - but it makes you want to stretch your ears and yowl.
Is this really the future of publishing? Wanton vandalism of somebody else's text? Regency murder mysteries and life below stairs in a stately home are all well and good, but you shouldn't have to get there by piggybacking on the success of other writers.
August 1, 2014
Meanwhile, back at the ranch ...
Over the years I've gobbled many books. Good, bad and indifferent; modern and classic; gentle comedy and gory horror. I've loved some and hated others, but they've all helped me to understand what constitutes great writing. Rich characters, snappy dialogue and original plots depend upon one crucial thing: the ability to successfully convey to your reader what the heck is going on.
I don't know if this is a recent development, or if it's no longer being taught on creative writing courses, but I've noticed a rash of novels that leave you stranded amidst the where, when and who. Let's have a quick look at how this can be avoided.
You Are Here
I had an unsettling out of body experience recently. Don't call Mulder and Scully; I was reading the newest instalment in a long running series. Ambling along, I thought the ragtag crew of militia and dragons were in one place - only to be rudely informed that they were now mid flight, and somewhere else entirely!
I skipped back a page. Had I dozed off during this not-very-exciting episode? Nope: no matter how often I read it, there was nothing to indicate the characters were on the move, not even a throwaway reference.
Be fair to your readers. Just as you wouldn't dump a party guest in the middle of nowhere wearing a blindfold, don't leave your audience groping for a sense of place. Signpost every change of scene. You don't need lavish backdrops and yodelling extras every time; a simple "They walked to the station" or "He stopped by the office" will suffice.
Without these prompts, your reader will assume that Dave is still in the queue at the building society, so they will be justifiably startled if seconds later he's on board a cruise ship sipping a piña colada.
Hijacked by the Tardis
One of the biggest bonuses of writing is the unlimited budget. You can whisk readers away to exotic climes and use special effects that would reduce Spielberg to tears. Best of all, a book of four hundred pages can span as many years.
Unfortunately some authors are so engrossed in the story, they forget to throw such an important lifeline. We're not talking about Roman centurions high fiving, though that's bad enough. This is when a chapter begins in January and, without a word of notice, lurches into July; when the likeable side character you hoped would stick around dies tragically between chapters, with only a cursory mention.
If your story spans many years or, still more confusingly, see saws back and forth in time, have the courtesy to acknowledge the fact. Use stars, regardless of unsightliness, or head chapters with the year they take place. Don't be vague: "several months later" doesn't give the picture, while "five months to the day" does. You may have the timeline for your novel on your computer somewhere, but your reader isn't privy to such information.
Who's who
Creating a fictional world is a thrilling experience, and you can't blame an author for wanting to populate it with interesting people. Though a large cast of characters undoubtedly enhances a story, the writer can occasionally bite off more than they can chew.
If a story opens with a young girl beginning her freshman year at college, you don't expect the action to inexplicably switch to an African warlord, or an extreme sports fanatic in Iceland. Though there may be a common factor linking these disparate characters, this won't be immediately obvious to the reader. You need to show why these characters are here, and why they should care. Too many shifts will give them whiplash.
Another issue I've noticed: if a character has been introduced by one name, use that name throughout unless he has a reason to adopt an alias. Changing names mid story or using a previously unknown nickname confuses the reader. Have your character say, "My name's Charlotte, but everyone calls me Charlie," or something similar. Not only is this a defining trait (the tomboyish Charlie despises her "prissy" name), it can tip the reader off when something's not quite right (why is she suddenly answering to Charlotte when we know she hates it?)
I don't know if this is a recent development, or if it's no longer being taught on creative writing courses, but I've noticed a rash of novels that leave you stranded amidst the where, when and who. Let's have a quick look at how this can be avoided.
You Are Here
I had an unsettling out of body experience recently. Don't call Mulder and Scully; I was reading the newest instalment in a long running series. Ambling along, I thought the ragtag crew of militia and dragons were in one place - only to be rudely informed that they were now mid flight, and somewhere else entirely!
I skipped back a page. Had I dozed off during this not-very-exciting episode? Nope: no matter how often I read it, there was nothing to indicate the characters were on the move, not even a throwaway reference.
Be fair to your readers. Just as you wouldn't dump a party guest in the middle of nowhere wearing a blindfold, don't leave your audience groping for a sense of place. Signpost every change of scene. You don't need lavish backdrops and yodelling extras every time; a simple "They walked to the station" or "He stopped by the office" will suffice.
Without these prompts, your reader will assume that Dave is still in the queue at the building society, so they will be justifiably startled if seconds later he's on board a cruise ship sipping a piña colada.
Hijacked by the Tardis
One of the biggest bonuses of writing is the unlimited budget. You can whisk readers away to exotic climes and use special effects that would reduce Spielberg to tears. Best of all, a book of four hundred pages can span as many years.
Unfortunately some authors are so engrossed in the story, they forget to throw such an important lifeline. We're not talking about Roman centurions high fiving, though that's bad enough. This is when a chapter begins in January and, without a word of notice, lurches into July; when the likeable side character you hoped would stick around dies tragically between chapters, with only a cursory mention.
If your story spans many years or, still more confusingly, see saws back and forth in time, have the courtesy to acknowledge the fact. Use stars, regardless of unsightliness, or head chapters with the year they take place. Don't be vague: "several months later" doesn't give the picture, while "five months to the day" does. You may have the timeline for your novel on your computer somewhere, but your reader isn't privy to such information.
Who's who
Creating a fictional world is a thrilling experience, and you can't blame an author for wanting to populate it with interesting people. Though a large cast of characters undoubtedly enhances a story, the writer can occasionally bite off more than they can chew.
If a story opens with a young girl beginning her freshman year at college, you don't expect the action to inexplicably switch to an African warlord, or an extreme sports fanatic in Iceland. Though there may be a common factor linking these disparate characters, this won't be immediately obvious to the reader. You need to show why these characters are here, and why they should care. Too many shifts will give them whiplash.
Another issue I've noticed: if a character has been introduced by one name, use that name throughout unless he has a reason to adopt an alias. Changing names mid story or using a previously unknown nickname confuses the reader. Have your character say, "My name's Charlotte, but everyone calls me Charlie," or something similar. Not only is this a defining trait (the tomboyish Charlie despises her "prissy" name), it can tip the reader off when something's not quite right (why is she suddenly answering to Charlotte when we know she hates it?)
