Historical Writing Workshop Review, plus Bonus Fiction Assignment

This past weekend, I went down to visit the family (without my husband and son, who were having bonding time), with a few key points on my agenda.  The initial desire to visit this particular weekend was because I had learned that a workshop was being offered at Heritage Park Village in the Pinellas Park area of Pinellas County, FL.  For 2 hours and $10, we were led to believe that we'd be infused with vast amounts of knowledge on how to do research and incorporate historical aspects into our writing.

That was the hype.  Did it live up to it?  Meh.  Was it worth it?  I'd say so, if only because it got me writing and time away by myself, which is very rare.

The speaker for the group (who I won't mention by name) is a published author of multiple novels, none of which I'd ever read or known anyone to have read.  She had a cheaply assembled set of documents printed with website addresses and some lists for things to consider when writing in a historical timeframe rather than in contemporary times.  We were reminded to consider things like the type of clothing, food, and work that were customary in the era in which we were writing.  After about 20 minutes of reviewing this packet and introducing ourselves (several of whom were already published novelists), we were told to read 4 pages of densely packed text on the culture and habits of the people of 17th Century England and write 3 pages, 2 at the very least.  We were given half an hour for this.

After spending my time scanning and attempting to absorb all the data that seemed sensible (particularly given my familiarity with 19th Century England), I allowed myself to proceed with writing.  And a story started to write itself.  I had mental images from other stories and films sort of mashing themselves together in my head, and admittedly my visuals largely seem to borrow from the movie Ever After, but after completing my assignment as much as possible in the time allotted, I felt rather accomplished and proud of what I'd achieved.

Our group was then subjected to the unnecessary and bizarre experience of witnessing the speaker dress in period costume and pretend to be the protagonist of her latest novel (on sale for less than bookstand prices, free autographs available, on the table by the wall).  This didn't seem too harrowing until it proved to last a full 20 minutes or more, providing an insanely developed synopsis of the plot of her book (which reminded me immensely of Auntie Mame, though it's really an unfair comparison).

Only then were we free to share our own writing.  There were golf claps and murmurs of encouraging words for everyone, at the very least.  One woman there surprised me by being far better than either herself or myself thought was likely, so I'm humbled by witnessing that.  But I couldn't help but notice that I got the best reaction from the crowd of other hopeful writers and the workshop's speaker.  While I'm not normally very self-congratulatory about my writing, I was pretty proud of what I had been able to throw together on the fly, so I felt the praise was well-deserved and have since subjected several family members and utter strangers to subsequent readings of this random assignment.

And therefore, given that I'm currently finding this a good thing, I'm going to share my efforts with you.  Aren't you lucky?  (Go on, you can throw up now.  I would, too.  But it's me, so, you know, I'm not going to do so just now.)

Okay, here goes (transcribed from chicken scratch by flashlight at 1am), unedited:

Jane heard the carriage wheels and hoofbeats of the horses and was startled out of her reverie.  In her mind's eye, peering out the kitchen window, she had pictured how she would change things if she were the mistress of Whitcomb Park.


Jane called out to the scullery maid, "'ere, look 'a that, Colleen.  'E's gone and fetched 'imself up a bride!  It'll be a fine load of work for us tonight.  Mind you straighten your hems.  And ne'er you mind if the new Lady Whitcomb calls ye Mary.  Them as are high born 'ere willn't stoop to using your Irish name."

Jane took her own advice and promptly straightened her petticoats.  She reset her head scarf and plucked a few saucy curls into good order.  Dusting her apron clean of flour as best she could, Jane made one last look around the kitchen before rushing out of the kitchen house to greet the new mistress of the house.


____________


The master should look happier than this, thought Jane.  He's got a wife and now his daughter can once again have a mother.  But he don't even have the decency nor grace to look pleased.


Jane watched Lord Whitcomb assist Lady Elizabeth Whitcomb from the carriage.  Her attire was a glorious display of velvet and silk.  But the sheer disdain that her eyes displayed on viewing the house and its staff members, in line for her welcome, was one that would forever color the perceptions of those who were there that day.


Colleen finally stumbled her way awkwardly out of the kitchen house and across the lawn to join the other servants.  Now it was the staff's turn to glare disdainfully at the Irish girl's disheveled status.  She hadn't even seen fit to cover her flame-red locks.  Without so much as a turn of their heads, the butler, upstairs maids, personal attendants, and even Jane managed to convey their disgust, and Colleen found herself suddenly standing several feet from the others.


Jane mentally prepared herself for the explanations she was certain would be demanded of her for the behavior of her only subordinate. I could say she en't right in the 'aid, that I 'ired 'er out o' charity, or so.


She contemplated her references to consider if a new location and employer might be a simpler matter.  Jane watched fearfully as her new mistress approached, still squinting along her nose and daintily holding her skirts above the muck in the yard with one hand and the master's arm with the other.

=======================================================

So, that's where I finished in class, and that's probably where I'll leave it.  I'd love some feedback (criticism is always welcome, provided it's constructive).  What did you like?  What did you think was weak?  I know there are weak parts in it, so don't pretend otherwise, or I won't value your opinion.  Is there anything in particular that strikes you?  Why do you think it's effective?

Thank you for taking the time to read all of the above!  Please be sure to leave a note in the comments!

Á La Jane Austen, Part the Second

This is the second part of an earlier post.  To read the previous post explaining what this is, go here.  Or just read on to enjoy!

Dearest Charlotte, 

Thank you ever so much for the delightful account of matters at home.  I am pleased to learn that our loving father yet persists in living, despite such excessive helpings of gravy, and that dear Mamma finds herself incapable of detecting any great want of judgment in the new scullery maid.  I am, however, certain that neither of these conditions will be long-lasting.  Dear sister, I would invite you to join us in Bath, if it were in my power.  At the least I shall make some subtle hints to my Aunt Nelly on the subject. 

It has been two days since the party at the McKinnons'.  How insufferably warm it was!  Half of Bath must have been invited, with scarcely any regard for Consequence.  I nearly had to leave the drawing room in a fit of laughter after Aunt Nelly discovered she had been speaking to a Governess.  Miss Greenly is so well-mannered and unaffected a young woman, and arrived in company with the Langfords, that Aunt did not perceive her place until several minutes into a rather intimate conversation.  On learning that Miss Greenly was, until very recently, governess to the Misses Langford, Aunt nearly brought on a Fit of Apoplexy in herself at the idea of such a one being in attendance.  Miss Caroline did an excellent job in redirecting the conversation to the weather so that both Aunt Nelly and poor Miss Greenly could recover. 

But I am making you wait and teasing you, no doubt.  I can nearly feel your eyes demanding of me the minute particulars of Mr. Kirby and Mr. Langford.  Very well, then. 

Mr. Garrison Kirby is a moderately well looking man.  His 40th birthday celebration is to be held Tuesday se'ennight, and I have been invited to attend.  Aunt has declared to me that she does not mean to accompany me, which well suits my preference in the matter.  Mr. Kirby is a tall, slim man with angular features abundant.  While never destined to be the most handsome of men, I find I am not misinformed of a certain pleasantness of his features.  he appears to be a man well-beloved by children and smiles almost incessantly.  His apparel and hair reflect a moderate amount of unaffected carelessness, and his manner is all cheerful sincerity.  miss Langford and he are indeed well-matched to one another, and I wish them joy in their marriage. 

As regards Mr. L., I have little new to report.  However, we had some dancing at the party at the McKinnons', and Mr. Langford saw fit to secure me for the first two dances.  If I could be relate the expression of Miss McKinnon on Henry's approaching us and inviting me rather than herself, to be his partner!  He danced divinely and, moreover, appeared entirely oblivious to the indignation of Miss McKinnon or the envious eyes of Miss Creighton and Miss Louisa Creighton.
I am most heartily yours,
Evelyn

Fin.

Á la young Jane Austen

I've been on a Jane Austen binge lately.  (Sorry, honey!)

I re-read or read all of her novels and juvenalia, other than Sandition which I understand was recently completed by another author.  I've watched the correlating movies for most of her novels ad nauseum. (Sorry again, honey!)  Seriously, I have watched Pride and Prejudice at least 30 times in the past month, if not more.  I have watched Becoming Jane with similar vigor.

Something about her writing, her life, her time period, her experiences just really resonates with me.  And so as a pre-writing exercise for part of my novel, and some pieces of which may actually form a part of the final draft thereof, I have endeavored to copy the writing style of Jane Austen in her juvenalia.

Without giving too much away, one of the characters in my Novel-In-Progress (NIP?) is obsessed with 19th Century literature, so I have allowed myself virtually unfettered absorption into the world of Jane Austen.  I've already done similar immersion experiments in the past with Charlotte Brontë and Louisa May Alcott and have been trying to get some 19thC male authors into the mix as well, though their novel writing bears a very distinct contrast to that of the women of the same period.

And so, what I have done is to write letters from one girl to her sister, both in parts of England, which I've never visited.  Yet, dagnabbit.  As I say, they are meant in some fashion to resemble though not outright copy the writing style of Jane Austen.  I only intended to copy her style insomuch as to make it as historically accurate for the period as possible without having to do significant research.  As my former professor, Boris Shekhtman told us math majors, "Mathematicians are inherently lazy."  He should know.  The man deliberately scheduled himself to work only afternoons and evenings so he could stay out until closing every night.  But he is absolutely brilliant and logical, despite his appetite for -OH and socializing in bars.  (True as anything, he's still doing the same scheme:  USF's website says all his classes right now start at 2pm.  Love that man!)

So, in the spirit of laziness and therefore mathematical brilliance, I present to you the two letters I have written so far.  Feedback is much appreciated, both positive and negative!  (Also, for those not familiar, it was customary to refer to the eldest unmarried female of a family by Miss [Last Name] and her younger siblings by Miss [First Name] [Last Name].)

Letter the First, from Evelyn in Bath to her sister Charlotte back home

Dear Charlotte, 

My dear sister, what shall you think of me?  I have been in Bath nearly a se'ennight without any correspondence to you.  Would I have some high reason for such a lapse, and yet the best excuse I have for myself is being incessantly kept busy. 

Aunt Nelly goes to the pump room daily and insists on my joining her.  With her great kindness in bringing me "out", I feel obligated to obey her every whim.  This may soon change, however, as I have at last found a friend for myself here.  Miss Caroline Langford and her brother are in Bath helping Miss Langford prepare for her upcoming nuptials to a Mr. Garrison Kirby.  Miss Caroline informed me that Mr. Kirby is nearly 40--over twice Miranda's age.  he has two thousand a year and a sizable estate South of Town. 

Miss Caroline declares that despite his advanced years, Mr. Kirby still appears handsome of face and agile of limb.  I have yet to meet him myself, though I feel sure of doing so at the McKinnons' dinner party tonight.  You may expect me to relate a less partial, very faithful review of the subject. 

As for the Langfords, they have been residing this twelvemonth with their mother's relations, following the illness and death of both their parents.  Miss Langford appears at first a delicate, shy flower of a girl.  At 19 years, she promises well with such bloom of youth persistent in her cheek.  Though a little fuller of figure than is generally thought handsome on a woman, her shape and bearing and gentle manner are yet pleasing to witness. 

Miss Caroline is more spritely than her sister.  At 17 years, she has, like me, only just left her governess, though she has been out nearly a twelvemonth.  Her fair hair possesses the perfect proportion of curl, and she styles it so elegantly and meticulously that I find myself starting to pay greater attention to my own toilette, so as to appear a more worthy companion.  Caroline's elegance of form and figure, as well as her delicate and heartfelt way with a harp, are sure to secure her a most worthy husband before long. 

I know what you are thinking.  Shame on you!  But you are right, of course.  I have scarcely mentioned Mr. Langford, and so you will naturally assume it is because I am besotted with him.  Tis too true for me to deny, though I fancy myself delusional should I believe myself the only eligible young woman to take notice of him. 

In the pump room yesterday, I overheard the Misses Creighton praising his "pleasing open brow and friendly countenance."  Miss McKinnon has often noted to me that Mr. Langford is so fortunate to have access to his inheritance at 23.  She believes his income to be about four or five thousand a year and that his sisters are each to have 10,000£.  Besides noting his being financially well-endowed and handsome, however, I find no other young ladies who appear to recognize his superiority to most other men in a far more worthy aspect.  His wit, humour, knowledge of the world, conversation, eloquence, vocabulary, and overall-pleasing manner cannot help but win the heart of any woman with an iota of perception. 

I may only hope Mr. L. could find enough similarity between our two characters to encourage him to choose me for a wife.  What high hopes I have!  So much room I leave myself for Disappointment! 

Please find me your ever devoted and loving (though lapsed in rapid correspondence) sister,

Evelyn

My hands are getting worn out.  I've written 4 letters by hand tonight before typing this post.  I'll type the second letter as another post.  Adieu!  (Or to quote young Jane Austen, "Adeiu!")

Novel Idea!

After lots of time spent wondering what I would want to write, I have finally had inspiration.  An idea for a novel has come to my head, and I've already started work on it.  I expect it will take me a while to get it completed, given that Jackson seldom naps anymore and the sleep habits of our household have been downright ridiculous.

BUT, I have started writing it and have a reasonable goal set for myself for what I will be able to write.  There is some switching between modern day and early 19th Century stories, so I may have some research to do to accomplish this task.  However, given the way I have arranged the storyline, this should not need to be a significant amount and probably amounts to what I want to do anyway.

Yes, I'm being rather cryptic about not revealing the plot.  Can you blame me?  I will update on my progress, though.  So far I'm just shy of completing the second chapter.  It's a little challenging, finding my voice, as I am having to write from the perspective of multiple characters.  One is female, the other male, and I may add a third or even a fourth, if I find it feasible.  Given that I want the depth of the story to be more than merely superficial, I'm spending time honing in on the mindset of the cast I have conceived thus far.

This is fun, exciting, and ...probably going to take a while.  But yay!  At last!

Writing Style

While I may never discover what I want to be when I grow up, as I feel at times, inside, I may never indeed outgrow my own Peter Pan phase, I hope someday to solidify a writing style that is uniquely my own.

Whenever I attempt to write fiction, I find my writing always appears trite or overly styled after another author.  Thus, in part, the title of this blog.  If I were to want to emulate an author, or at least, with my writing to evince the sort of response that another author does, J.D. Salinger would be my ideal.  But he is not my only ideal.  For romance, there would be Jane Austen.  For realism that inevitably turns romantic, there would be Charlotte Brontë.  For modernity and feminism, Elizabeth Buchan.  For wit, Terry Pratchett.  For organization, Jim Butcher.  For poetry, curse it all, Robert Frost.  (I'm STILL mad that I like his poetry best.)  For daring plots, William Shakespeare.  For imagination, Neil Gaiman.  For accessibility, Carole Matthews.  And for whimsy, Douglas Adams.

Yet for all that I admire the lot of them more than any other authors, none of them is me.  When I try to write short stories, even well before having read his work, they all come out like O. Henry.  I can't seem to help it.  I want to write a 19th Century romantic novel that parodies real life yet possesses a supernatural overtone and is written in a modernly feminist yet whimsical sort of accessible, poetic prose, in which the depth of thought and planning is enhanced despite a continued insistence on referring to a strange man's feet as seeming old and valued friends of mine.  For some reason, I can't figure out why this isn't working for me so far.

At this moment, I am reminded of a scene in the film version of Little Women, Louisa May Alcott's most famous novel, in which Laurie accuses Amy's artistry of being "mediocre copies of another man's genius."  I do not aspire to be mediocre, nor do I wish to copy anyone else's genius.  And yet...I aspire to write truth and beauty and happy endings and somehow make them all mesh with one another.  Surely someone else has done such a thing; surely my attempts to do so would be mere copies.

Am I too happy in my life to write well?  Or is it really a problem, as I keep telling myself, of not knowing what subject on which I should best write.  Typically speaking, I'm a lazy writer.  I lose interest quickly and loathe editing.  Oh, sure, I'll edit someone else's work and critique it no end.  But my own?  I become defensive, then doubtful, and then self-deprecating and eventually surrender and commit my writing to a drawer, unfinished.

Prolific authors exist.  Yet how?  I cannot even manage to write a solitary novel.  I even failed at writing a meta-novel!  Though I can't say that was surprising....  And then if I wish to be published...what likelihood is there that someone would want to read my writing?  As it is, I pick up spoken accents so readily that I sound like my conversation-mates within a few minutes time.  And here I am, having just watched Becoming Jane, and I can't seem to get a 19th Century British diction out of my head.  If I were to write again tomorrow on the same subject, after reading Gregory Maguire, what would change?  Could I be consistent enough a writer to manage a novel?  According to my parenting blog (Shameless Plug) and my husband/most honest critic, the answer is no, certainly not.

So what next?  Do I piss and moan my whole life about being an incapable writer of fiction?  I don't wish to write just for the amusement of others.  I could not be content unless the end result also pleased me, if it were something I would select to read.  Do I hide behind my family, blaming their dependence on me for my lack of time spent practicing the art of writing?  Do I own up to my short attention span for projects?  Or is it something more?

At times, I feel a desperate need to write, but I fear that what I want to write most is from personal experience.  Things that may scrape so close to the bone as to be painful to those I know and love and have no desire to wound.  (And YES, I know that last sentence was a fragment, brain.  Stop being a ninny pinny.)  (Oh, for goodness' sake, now I'm looking up ninny pinny.  I give up on me.)

I have to wonder...how many would-be authors are out there who would write but that their subject of choice is in some way forbidden.  Be it by law, kindness, family, or whatever, I imagine there are many of us who hide behind the notion of being incapable of writing our hearts.  Honesty forces me to acknowledge that even this meta-statement is a difficult one.  It's as though I am admitting guilt to a crime that no one knows has been committed or that I am professing a desire to commit one and allowing the reader to guess which.

Oh, do not fear, reader.  It is not so repellent as you may think...or perhaps it is.  I am unsure.  And I do not wish to tease.  Forgive me, dear reader, my trespasses.  One of which was to write that last sentence.  Another was to make these two statements fragments.

"I am gone, though I am here." ~Beatrice in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing

Adieu.

[Exeunt]

The Worst Critic

I'm sure there are artists of every kind out there who feel like nothing they ever do is quite good enough.

What's funny is that so often we find the most things to criticize of the things we do ourselves.  But when it's someone else's work that we really enjoy and respect, the same criticism isn't there.

I've had a lot of people praise my writing, yet most of the things I write, later on I start to poke at them with a mental stick and say, "Hmm, this is so trite." or "Why didn't I write a cheerful story?" or "When am I going to stop (if ever) feeling like everything is a compilation of copies of things other people have already done?"

I read webcomics.  I really enjoy many of them and try to keep up with them regularly, as I have for 10 or 12 years now.  The main distinction with webcomics is that they are typically posted by the artist, who often leaves commentary regarding the comic.  And the self-critic in the artist often finds a way to express itself.  Cartoonists will complain about a line being too thick or thin, the shading not being quite right, the dialog never meeting the high standards the cartoonist would like, etc.

And today, I saw this one:



Tatsuya Ishida is a phenomenally talented comic artist.  I've been reading Sinfest, from which the above comic was culled, for 10 years now.  Is every comic equally marvelous to one another?  No.  But the vast majority are funny, lighthearted, perceptive, and humorously critical of all walks of life.

I have no intention in writing this other than to say what I did above, so before I ruin it...I publish now.