On Being Less Awesome Than Mervyn Peake
Dear Blog,
My oldest friend, after reading a draft of my fantasy spy story, gave me a copy of Titus Groan by Mervyn Peake, which I had never read.
The reason, in part (or in full?), was because my friend was decidedly unimpressed by my lackluster (or lack of) portrayal of Spira City, my made up version of early 20th century Paris, or the island fortress where the final chapters take place. Mervyn Peake’s castle-fortress Gormenghast was meant, I think, to inspire me to greater ambition, to give me a sense of what might be done with Place, in a novel. (I put up a wee review of the novel here).
In fact, this very dear friend of mine had nailed one of my biggest weaknesses as a writer. Well, maybe it’s one of my biggest weaknesses. I suppose that’s really for a reader to judge (though I’d prefer they didn’t). I am no good at describing places. And buildings in particular. I do a little better with natural scenes. Maybe.
I’m not sure how to get better at it. When I was a kid, I used to skip over the descriptions of places. I just didn’t care all that much. And I’m sure that it is linked to my lack of skill as a home-decorator. So anyway, I finally opened up Titus Groan a few weeks ago, and here is the very first paragraph of the book:
Gormenghast, that is, the main massing of the original stone, taken by itself would have displayed a certain ponderous architectural quality were it possible to have ignored the circumfusion of those mean dwellings that swarmed like an epidemic around its outer walls. They sprawled over the sloping earth, each one half way over its neighbour until, held back by the castle ramparts, the innermost of these hovels laid hold on the great walls, clamping themselves thereto like limpets to a rock. These dwellings, by ancient law, were granted this chill intimacy with the stronghold that loomed above them. Over their irregular roofs would fall throughout the seasons, the shadows of time-eaten buttresses, of broken and lofty turrets, and, most enormous of all, the shadow of the Tower of Flints. This tower, patched unevenly with black ivy, arose like a mutilated finger from among the fists of knuckled masonry and pointed blasphemously at heaven. At night the owls made of it an echoing throat; by day it stood voiceless and cast its long shadow.
Wow. Right? Me, I probably would have written “surrounded by poor huts” and “tall, dark tower” and hurried on to the Character Has Feelings About Stuff That Happens bit.
Of course, most books that aren’t set in space or in the middle of the desert have buildings in them and not all writers dwell as passionately on their buildings as Mervyn Peake does. You can read any writer and feel insecure that the thing they do well is not the thing you do well, and maybe you should be doing the thing they do well as well. Sometimes the things I can’t do well loom so large in my imagination, and seem to overshadow the things I can do well. I want to be better, of course. A better mother, a better writer, a better person, a better interior decorator. I am trying to be better. I am hoping that when the friend who gave me Titus Groan reads my second spy story, he won’t think that the city of Tianshi is a total flop. (Yes, I know, Tianshi is awfully similar to Tian Di and why is that? I will tell you sometime, blog, but it is all Chinese – randomly in the case of Tian Di, and not at all randomly in the case of Tianshi!). But the sad fact is, I will never be as fine a writer as Mervyn Peake. Even so, I hope that when the book is done, its successes will outshine the failures, and the failures will not be so noticeable.
Still, Place / Setting is important. I am working on it. This is the second paragraph of my New First Draft:
Spira City would be brilliant with gas lamps, but Tianshi, the walled capital of Zhongguo, is pitch black at night. There is the odd flicker of a torch here and there, the dim glow of a candle in a window; the rest is darkness. Tonight I am restless. I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to drink, I don’t want to talk. I am thinking of home, The Twist; its winding streets, raucous laughter spilling out of the brothels, half-starved cats stalking rats, the smell of spice and snow and smoke. The sounds and smells are all different here. Wet stone from the afternoon rain, which came down in a torrent while the bells of Ei-ji chimed their magic for it. The click of dice and low voices as I pass a torch-lit courtyard. Chicken feces and the faint scent of fried pork mingling in the air. They call it the Heavenly City, and by day the many-coloured tile rooftops shine in the sunlight, the markets overflow with silks and spices, terribly thin but strong young boys run through the streets with rickshaws calling out for rides, slender trees hang heavy with spring blossoms. With the dark, a hush falls. Where Spira City comes alive at night, Tianshi nestles down close to the earth, the people withdraw, the lights go out.
For years I’ve longed to get out of Spira City, to see the world. Now I find I’m feeling homesick.
Not exactly knuckled masonry and swarming epidemics of hovels, but we all do what we can.
Yours, Peake-enviously,
Catherine
My oldest friend, after reading a draft of my fantasy spy story, gave me a copy of Titus Groan by Mervyn Peake, which I had never read.
The reason, in part (or in full?), was because my friend was decidedly unimpressed by my lackluster (or lack of) portrayal of Spira City, my made up version of early 20th century Paris, or the island fortress where the final chapters take place. Mervyn Peake’s castle-fortress Gormenghast was meant, I think, to inspire me to greater ambition, to give me a sense of what might be done with Place, in a novel. (I put up a wee review of the novel here).
In fact, this very dear friend of mine had nailed one of my biggest weaknesses as a writer. Well, maybe it’s one of my biggest weaknesses. I suppose that’s really for a reader to judge (though I’d prefer they didn’t). I am no good at describing places. And buildings in particular. I do a little better with natural scenes. Maybe.
I’m not sure how to get better at it. When I was a kid, I used to skip over the descriptions of places. I just didn’t care all that much. And I’m sure that it is linked to my lack of skill as a home-decorator. So anyway, I finally opened up Titus Groan a few weeks ago, and here is the very first paragraph of the book:
Gormenghast, that is, the main massing of the original stone, taken by itself would have displayed a certain ponderous architectural quality were it possible to have ignored the circumfusion of those mean dwellings that swarmed like an epidemic around its outer walls. They sprawled over the sloping earth, each one half way over its neighbour until, held back by the castle ramparts, the innermost of these hovels laid hold on the great walls, clamping themselves thereto like limpets to a rock. These dwellings, by ancient law, were granted this chill intimacy with the stronghold that loomed above them. Over their irregular roofs would fall throughout the seasons, the shadows of time-eaten buttresses, of broken and lofty turrets, and, most enormous of all, the shadow of the Tower of Flints. This tower, patched unevenly with black ivy, arose like a mutilated finger from among the fists of knuckled masonry and pointed blasphemously at heaven. At night the owls made of it an echoing throat; by day it stood voiceless and cast its long shadow.
Wow. Right? Me, I probably would have written “surrounded by poor huts” and “tall, dark tower” and hurried on to the Character Has Feelings About Stuff That Happens bit.
Of course, most books that aren’t set in space or in the middle of the desert have buildings in them and not all writers dwell as passionately on their buildings as Mervyn Peake does. You can read any writer and feel insecure that the thing they do well is not the thing you do well, and maybe you should be doing the thing they do well as well. Sometimes the things I can’t do well loom so large in my imagination, and seem to overshadow the things I can do well. I want to be better, of course. A better mother, a better writer, a better person, a better interior decorator. I am trying to be better. I am hoping that when the friend who gave me Titus Groan reads my second spy story, he won’t think that the city of Tianshi is a total flop. (Yes, I know, Tianshi is awfully similar to Tian Di and why is that? I will tell you sometime, blog, but it is all Chinese – randomly in the case of Tian Di, and not at all randomly in the case of Tianshi!). But the sad fact is, I will never be as fine a writer as Mervyn Peake. Even so, I hope that when the book is done, its successes will outshine the failures, and the failures will not be so noticeable.
Still, Place / Setting is important. I am working on it. This is the second paragraph of my New First Draft:
Spira City would be brilliant with gas lamps, but Tianshi, the walled capital of Zhongguo, is pitch black at night. There is the odd flicker of a torch here and there, the dim glow of a candle in a window; the rest is darkness. Tonight I am restless. I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to drink, I don’t want to talk. I am thinking of home, The Twist; its winding streets, raucous laughter spilling out of the brothels, half-starved cats stalking rats, the smell of spice and snow and smoke. The sounds and smells are all different here. Wet stone from the afternoon rain, which came down in a torrent while the bells of Ei-ji chimed their magic for it. The click of dice and low voices as I pass a torch-lit courtyard. Chicken feces and the faint scent of fried pork mingling in the air. They call it the Heavenly City, and by day the many-coloured tile rooftops shine in the sunlight, the markets overflow with silks and spices, terribly thin but strong young boys run through the streets with rickshaws calling out for rides, slender trees hang heavy with spring blossoms. With the dark, a hush falls. Where Spira City comes alive at night, Tianshi nestles down close to the earth, the people withdraw, the lights go out.
For years I’ve longed to get out of Spira City, to see the world. Now I find I’m feeling homesick.
Not exactly knuckled masonry and swarming epidemics of hovels, but we all do what we can.
Yours, Peake-enviously,
Catherine
date
newest »
newest »
message 1:
by
C.G.
(new)
Dec 10, 2012 06:30PM
I have to say I like your paragraph better. His is impressive and richly worded but for me it doesn't give me the same kind of sense that yours does. I almost want to call his description 'melodramatic'. I often skipped descriptions - and still do - if they don't add anything to a story. Your paragraph gives me a real sense of where the narrator is - the sights and sounds and smells.
reply
|
flag
Well, that is nice of you. What is amazing (to me) is that you read his first paragraph and think, wow, that is stunning and sort of over-the-top, and then THE WHOLE BOOK is like that. While I was reading I felt weirdly awed and bored at the same time (not totally unlike the way I feel when playing dinosaurs with my kids).
I agree with the assessment that yours is the better paragraph. Peake has some awesome description but it's very cold (and convoluted). Yours has emotional resonance because of the character's comparisons between the two cities and what she is feeling. Her emotional response is an anchor for the reader.
Ha, maybe I should write a new post, on being more awesome than Mervyn Peake! Well, my difficulty with Titus Groan was exactly the lack of "emotional" anchors, and I did find the book cold in a way... but though it really isn't a lovable book, I think it's impossible not to recognize the genius if you read it right through. I picked the first paragraph, but could have picked any paragraph in the book - the writing is incredible (but also, yes, convoluted, sort of "old-fashioned" I guess). I don't actually want to write like Mervyn Peake, but I'd love to be able to, and very much envy his ability to make a setting so vivid and monstrous and complete over the course of the book. I sometimes forget about setting, will not even bother to imagine the room a conversation is taking place in, say, because I'm busy with the conversation and don't care about the room. Not that every room needs a long elaborate description, but I think it's a kind of laziness in my writing / imagination. But anyway very glad you guys liked my paragraph #2! Whether I can really make the city come alive is still an open question, but I'm trying to pay attention to it.
While MErvyn Peake's descriptions are amazing, I think it's a good idea to remember that descriptions have to work in the context of the story, ie what the author is trying to achieve. The castle of Gormenghast is in a sense one of the characters, and its very weird architecture vitally important for the atmosphere and mood of the story. If that's not what you are looking for in your story, don't write it. In my own writing I'm not one for massive descriptions of place either - that doesn't make you a bad writer, just a different one. Your more minimalist description manages to set a scene well, so why worry?
I don't actually want to write like Mervyn Peake - amazing as he is, he writes enough like Mervyn Peake for the lot of us. But "description of place" *is* a weakness of mine, and Mervyn Peake is way at the other end of the spectrum. I don't want to write like him, but I do want to be a better writer and capture places more vividly. Nice point about Gormenghast being sort of like a character in the book. I should read the second book soon, while the first is still fresh in my mind.
