This is Classic

      According to Webster, the adjective "Classic" refers to something that is "judged to be of the highest quality and outstanding of its kind," as well as "remarkably and instructively typical." The definition also goes on to suggest that "quintessential" and "definitive" might be appropriate synonyms. Of course...so, when one of the students in my first period class spills his entire cup of overpriced coffee into the book bag of the kid sitting next to him, and said bag owner jumps out of his seat and yells, "classic move, dummy!" we are to assume this action was of the highest and most outstanding quality (if not simply instructively typical). Hmmm...something, as they say, may have been lost in the translation.

     I'm not unwilling to recognize that any language's vocabulary passes through certain chronological transitions, or that, as my British friend, Frances, is happy to point out, Americans have a knack for speeding up this process through the daily mutilation of their native tongue. As an English teacher, how many times did I circle "would of" or "couldn't not" in the midst a student essay? And when did "morph" become an acceptable verb to describe human change...butterflies, yes, but people?...Not something I want to see.

     Then there's my personal favorite: "awesome;" as in, "this book has an awesome theme," or "the end of this story was really awesome."  What does that mean, really? That you got to the end of the book and that you had a feeling of "reverential respect mixed with fear or wonder?" I used to criticize kids for using "nice" or "interesting" to describe the various aspects of a novel. Maybe I should have left that alone.

     Of course, as children of the 60s, my friends and I were once known to describe innumerable items and experiences as "neat" or "groovy." I was a lot of things as a teenager, but "neat" was definitely not one of my finest traits. And "groovy?" What did we think we were? Record albums? (For those of you who don't know, by the way, records were those large flat musical discs that could be easily scratched or broken, but for some reason, have now become collectors' items under the pseudonym "vinyl." )

     But back to "classic." When I first decided to write novels, I was determined to write a classic novel. I was quite secure in my decision, especially since I had spent a good 30 years writing the following definition on the board (and having dozens of students dutifully write it down): "Classic Novel = One that stands the test of time." Not counting the kids who immediately raised their hands to ask when the timed test was going to take place, the majority of my students did eventually learn to work with this definition quite well.

     The first challenge was to get them to apply the definition to a novel we were studying. So I would then write on the board: "Why is The Scarlet Letter a Classic Novel?" and ask them to respond to this question in writing. Seven kids wrote: "Because it's old, long, and boring," and handed in their papers. Two others wrote: "Because Nathaniel Hawthorne probably spent a lot of money on advertising." (Now that I'm a writer, I feel that may have been a distinct possibility.) Another kid wrote: "Because it was made into a movie...I think." And three more kids wrote: "Because it's really hard to read and no one gets it." Only one student spent some time trying to figure out how the characters, the plot, and the theme represented universal, unchanging ideas and values. But this was the same kid who spilled the huge cup of coffee in his friend's bag.

     They were much more enthusiastic about the task when I asked them to try and figure out which contemporary novels were most likely to become "classics." Unfortunately, in response to this, some kids wrote things like: "people will always do drugs," and "superheroes will always win out in the end." After that, I wasn't sure I really wanted to know what they were reading, but at least I knew they were reading something.

     So...how would I define a "Classic Novel?" What immediately comes to mind is (sadly) The Scarlett Letter. and then maybe The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and certainly The Great Gatsby. And who doesn't love The Old Man and the Sea? (if, as a teenager, purely for its brevity). I know that even now, 50-100 years plus after each of these were published, I can still go to a bookstore and get a copy (if I didn't have five copies of each one already).

    As for the Classic novels on my bookshelf, they are usually more defined by the degree of yellowing on their pages and the intensity of that musty smell emanating from within, when said pages are casually flipped. I also know one of my books is a classic when I can't remember what it's about.

    So maybe I won't write classic novels after all; maybe I should just be content with creating something that has an awesome theme, or a plot couldn't not have happened in real life, or characters that would of really existed...or maybe I should just write something really groovy and leave it at that.

She's a Real Character....

...is the way one of my friends always describes someone she wants me to meet. But as a writer, I'm never really sure what this expression means. If I create a character, let's say, for a story or a novel, I'm always trying to make this character be a unique individual; so that he or she will bear no resemblance to anyone I know, yet, heaven forbid, will not be a stereotype either. This is actually impossible, by the way, because when you write a story, you either write about what you know (as Hemingway would advise) or you make something up that has no connection with anything or anyone in your life. The latter often gets the delete button almost immediately, because it's so awful you can't even read it yourself.

Here's what happens with the first choice. You go to a family dinner bringing copies of your first novel (signed, of course, and inscribed with some loving message inscribed as well) and after everyone oohs and aahs over your "great achievement," they spend the rest of the evening arguing over which character in the book is "me." Later, your best friend emails you and warns you that you "better hope ______ (insert name of another friend or relative here) never reads this" because "I'd hate to imagine how they will feel." This is because your friend has decided that character A is "so obviously" that other friend or relative, and is trying to protect that person's sensibilities from your poison pen. Thus my confusion over what constitutes a "real character." And isn't that actually an oxymoron?

In my first book, Scraps of Eternity, the protagonist is basically (okay, I'm admitting it) me. Naturally I made "Eleanor" somewhat younger and more attractive, as well as infinitely wiser and more capable of dealing with the vicissitudes of her life. In other words, I gave her a more challenging personal situation, but better emotional tools with which to deal with the whole thing. Here was the problem: as soon as I let her loose in the story, she started doing and saying all this unpredictable stuff, and next thing I know, she's completely changed my life, not to mention the point of the story. In Hemingway's case, of course, he made himself a war hero who wins the love of the woman who actually dumped him in real life, so it could have been worse.

In my second book, Some Things are Better Left Unsaid, the protagonist is less me, but still, we have enough in common to create a plausible point of view. "Maggie" is also far more secure and independent minded than I am; but this was somewhat helpful, in that I resented her for it, so that made it easier for me to let her screw up, which in turn, made for a better plot. In addition, it was fascinating to watch my friends and family try to squeeze themselves into the infinitely more fictional personalities of the other characters in this novel. In fact, there is only one character actually modeled heavily after a real person, and that real person is the same one who informed me, on learning that I was writing a novel, that "I never read fiction." I guess I'm safe with that one.
  
I once taught a short story writing class in which I used a paperback "how-to" book called Shaum's Quick Guide to Writing Great Short Stories as a basic text. Keep in mind this was a class of 12 teenagers to whom the expression "quick guide" was inspirational in itself. The book was also only 144 pages long, with lots of credits at the beginning and end, which also added to its instant popularity among my students.

Anyhow, in the section on "characters," it offers the following advice: "get them in trouble, then get them in more trouble, then get them in the worst possible trouble..." I did, of course, emphasize to my students that this advice was only in regard to fictional people, lest they misunderstand the concept. But of all the techniques the book advocated, this is the one that stuck with me the most when I started to write my novels, and I soon recognized that I was too fond of my characters, at first, to follow this advice.

One of my favorite books is Frederik Backman's A Man Called Ove. The main character in this novel is first introduced when he is in the process of trying to kill himself after losing his wife. The thing is, he is trying to do it neatly and efficiently, which is an integral part of his personality, and because this takes time, (sorry, spoiler alert) he is constantly interrupted by other people he ends up helping, and eventually caring too much about. I was totally frustrated by his curmudgeon personality and also loved him for it in the end. Perfect, I thought.

So, even though I was still pretty fond of Katie in Home to Trout River, I did choose a twenty something young woman for a protagonist, which made it easier for her to make annoyingly bad decisions. This was the point, by the way, when everyone I know gave up trying to find their alter egos in my novels and, go figure, this was the one more people seemed to really like. 

Encouraged by my apparently improved characterization skills, I decided to create a male protagonist in my next book, Taking Flight. My readers told me that "Walter," who again is modeled after no one, was very "believable," which was definitely rewarding, even though only eight people I know have actually read the book and seven of them were women. But it did seem like the more fictitious the protagonist, the more successful the novel, at least in the available sampling.

However, the characters in my most recent novel, Inheritance, are also modeled after no one and less people have read that book. One friend who did, actually confessed she didn't like it. "I couldn't relate to the characters," she told me. "None of them were recognizable. Do you actually know anyone like this?" I think I might be right back where I started. Maybe what I should do is try listening to Hemingway's advice again; after all, I hear he was a real character.

The Department of Redundancy Department

When I was still a teacher (which seems a million years ago now), I was obsessed with creating good writers out of my students; not just that they would be capable of putting a sentence together (or something that was actually a sentence), or being grammatically correct in what they wrote, but that they would express something in the best way possible. One can only imagine in this world of STEM courses and technology based literacy what I was up against. Why on earth (the expression on their faces seemed to inquire) would I want to express myself any more eloquently? Use metaphors, similes, descriptive prose, and effective verbs and adjectives, when I can simply state what it is I have to say in the briefest, most straight-forward way possible? Okay then, how about I circle (in red ink), the words and phrases that seem to me to be the greatest mutilation of English language expression (but just put AWK for awkward in the margin, so no one will be forever emotionally scarred).

Redundancy was among the language mangling that bugged me the most back then: like “reflected back,” which means looked back back. Then there’s “completely destroyed;” either it was or it wasn’t. Another favorite of mine when a student wrote about something that was “left behind;” of course, it was. How could you leave something “ahead?” That would be like “forever gone;” because if it was truly gone, wouldn’t that be forever? Gone is gone, right?

So, when I started this blog, it was intended to be about the writing process…so, I would be writing about writing. It might be the only redundant thing that one can actually do (other than, perhaps, blogging about blogging); for example, you can’t eat about eating, or sleep about sleeping, or exercise about exercising. But one can write about writing, or at least about the joys and frustrations of the process.

But then I found out there are actually “rules” for writing a blog. Okay, maybe not rules, but “recommendations,” which is another use of normally fine vocabulary that I really don’t understand. It was “recommended” for example that as teachers, we stop using red pens and use purple or green instead…like the kids are not going to quickly develop the same aversion to these colors? Or as one of my students once said, “why did all the teachers stop using red pen? How do I know if I’m doing something wrong?” Right, how does one?

Anyhow, if you’re a writer and you are writing about writing in your blog, the first thing that is “recommended” you don’t do, is promote your own work. So how does that work? First, the primary “recommendation” is that you develop an “online presence,” so people will know you are out there; then, in your “online presence,” you’re not supposed to promote the novels you wrote. Instead (second recommendation), you’re supposed to write about other author’s works…in the best possible context. My first reaction to this was to find myself stamping my proverbial feet and saying, when is it my turn?

But of course, I didn’t. Because, honestly, I’m as big a fan of reading as I am of writing, and the more novels I read, the more I find myself saying, wow! How do they write like that? I want to do this. Someone should just let me. Uh-oh, recommendation #3, don’t whine about how no one is reading/has noticed/is interested in what you write. Really? You can’t do that either? Sigh.

So maybe what I need to do, before I (and my novels) am gone forever, is to reflect back on the reason I started doing this in the first place; why I didn’t just leave the whole thing behind when the underwhelming response to my first novels almost completely destroyed my enthusiasm. The bottom line is that I love to write, and quite honestly, it is an innate and essential part of who I am, so I guess I’m stuck with it, even though I ask myself the same thing day after day after day after day….

“First I Want to Say…"

“She just loves the sound of her own voice,” my grandmother would always declare, when she thought someone did too much talking, but had little of any importance to say. My grandmother, herself, had many opinions, all of which she was more than happy to share, especially with my long-suffering mother…who in turn, would share hers with us, my brother and me, that is.

My mother’s favorite expression, on the other hand, was “what on earth made you do that?” which we eventually took to be a rhetorical question, rather than an actual one. My children would probably say that mine was, “what were you thinking?” In my case, however, they would probably have answered. In fact, the older (and perhaps more introspective) we all grew, the more personal this declaration became (as in, “what was I thinking?”).

The original title of this blog was going to be “The Foolish Old Woman who Thinks She’s a Writer,” because there are, no doubt, a number of people I know well who would agree with this, but that didn’t work out; too many characters. So, I went with what my Grandmother would probably have said about me as well, and she may have been right. After all, who starts a writing career at my age?

My favorite author is Anne Tyler, whose current publicity picture suggests that she is a gray-haired, mild-mannered, and completely accessible older woman, who is still writing meaningful novels at age 77.

Unfortunately for me in terms of encouraging comparison, she has published 22 of them, the first of which she wrote at age 24. Based on this example, I still need 53 years to advance my writing career, and at least another 20 before being considered for a Pulitzer Prize (as she was, for Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant when she was 44). So much for becoming my role model.

One of my other two choices to emulate is Margaret Mitchell, who wrote the “literary masterpiece,” Gone with the Wind, the paperback version of which is well over 1000 pages, and one of my all-time favorite books. But the problem here is that she wrote this novel when she was in her late 20s and virtually nothing else afterwards. Of course, she was also hit by a car and killed when she was only 48, simply crossing the street on her way to a movie, so I’m not sure how far I want to extend this analogy. My second choice, Rosamunde Pilcher, died recently at the age of 94, having written her first truly successful novel, The Shell Seekers, when she was 63. Granted I have a few years on her, even, but I loved this book…which must mean there’s still hope.

So…what on earth made me do this? Decide to write books, I mean. To all outward appearances, it seems I had a quite successful teaching career, and certainly could have rested on my laurels, while filling my retirement days with meaningful volunteer work. Instead, I bought a new MacBook Air, settled on the couch between two disinterested cats (one of whom snores loudly), and started typing away in my fictional world…with, I might add absolutely no plan or ability to market the results, even to my own friends and family. What was I thinking? I don’t know, maybe I just like to hear the sound of my own voice.