"Why Can't I Write Like Tolkien?" A Rebuttal, of sorts

I was reading an article the other day that complained of why current Christian writers can't rise to the level of the Tolkiens and Lewises of last century; why Christian fiction now is so dull and drab in comparison. I didn't finish the article so I can't offer a comprehensive answer as to whether I agreed with the writer's logic or not. I think my tablet crashed of there was a baby to rock to sleep or something along those lines. Or kittens. I think it might have been kittens.
So this question ("Why don't we have a new Tolkien yet?") stayed in the back of my mind and collided this morning with idle musings over the fact that Tolkien's translation of Beowulf is going to be published this spring. (incidentally, I've never read Beowulf but I think I need to now.) At first I thought, "Oh, of course. Translation of Beowulf. Tolkien. Right. Okay, what next?" and then my brain wheeled around like a dog that has just galloped past a cat and squeals to a stop on his rump.

Well that, my darlings, is the answer to your question.

J.R.R. Tolkien was fluent in or at least had a working knowledge of 35 languages, including those he invented. (But a ruddy lot of the languages he knew were real, not concocted.) Lewis was equally intelligent. Both were professors at Oxford and Lewis took a spell at Cambridge too. These were brilliant, disciplined, crazy-academic minds, not your average aspiring novelist.

When people complain about today's Christian fiction, I don't think they are entirely complaining about its preachiness. You see, an unskilled writer is always going to disappoint in putting forth their subjects. You might notice the glaring lack of tact in portraying the Gospel ("I've got to have God in here somewhere. Might as well bang 'em over the head with it."), but if you care to look deeper, you will also find a lack of tact in portraying almost anything. The general question is, "Why can't authors today portray Christianity in their writing like Lewis and Tolkien did?" but I think the underlying question is: "Why can't authors write today like Lewis and Tolkien did?" and there is an answer to that question:

We don't bother enough with our education and intellect.

You cannot seriously expect to write like some of the most brilliant minds of our century if you don't take care with your own brilliant mind and cultivate it. Deciding you've finished high-school and therefore have no compulsion to read anything but historical romance the rest of your life is not going to stand you in good stead. Because writing is an out-pouring, we must counter that egress with an influx of something hearty. Read good books, read strong books. Talk to and meet people and travel when you can and always keep a mind active and open to learning new things. Just because you are out of your formal education years can't mean you stop learning. It's madness. The strength of your writing is going to be directly proportionate to the strength of your mind. I realize the opposite end of ignoring the furthering of you education would mean becoming one of those annoying academics who do nothing but read, discuss philosophy, and debate ethics with you when all you asked was whether the bananas were ripe or whether they wanted a few days more.

I don't intend to urge you into that boorish style of living. I only propose that, did J.R.R. Tolkien stop pouring into his education at eighteen, he might never have written The Lord of the Rings or translated Beowulf or taught at Oxford or learned all his languages. I also propose that if you, dear Christian Writer, make an effort to continuously broaden the horizons of your mind, there is no limit to the things of which you might be capable. Build your mind, nurture your intellect, and write to the depths of your being. That is the secret of Tolkien, the genius of Lewis. Stop asking why we aren't them. Start paying heed to the methods and path they forged before us.

Happy 114th!

Today we are having a birthday party on this blog. Why? Why? Good grief, my dear friends! Because it is C.S. Lewis' 114th birthday, and if I forget to celebrate his birthday, I might as well forget to celebrate my own!
Ever since Mama would read us the Chronicles of Narnia...ever since watching the old BBC film versions...ever since I was first introduced to the marvelous idea of a forest in the back of a wardrobe, I have loved Lewis. Narnia was the only make-believe land I cared for. So many many times can I recall playing at Narnia on the hill behind our house, sometimes creeping into the solemn, stern cluster of woods called "Doxey Park" with the solitary lamppost standing sentinel at one side. We made daggers. We shot bows and arrows.
Then I grew older and I realized--with a delighted wriggle--the second level to Lewis' writings: the beautiful, poignant truths woven so inextricably through his words that it hurts in a good way to read them. I expanded from my narrow circle of the Chronicles of Narnia and read The Screwtape Letters....Surprised by Joy....biographies of this man...and what a man he was. To celebrate, below I've compiled some of my favorite  quotes along with pictures of this wonderful Christian brother, or things that remind me of him! Huzzah!

"I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else." -C.S. Lewis

"A children's story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest."

 -C.S. Lewis

"I'm on Aslan's side, even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia." -C.S. Lewis The Silver Chair

“I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God. That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”

-C.S. Lewis Mere Christianity

“I didn’t go to religion to make me happy. I always knew a bottle of Port would do that. If you want a religion to make you feel really comfortable, I certainly don’t recommend Christianity.”

-C.S. Lewis

“Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.”

-C.S. Lewis Mere Christianity

Sarah and I as the White Witch and the Lady of the Green Kirtle 

“It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"

"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.

"Are -are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.

"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.” 

-C.S. Lewis The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

“You come of the Lord Adam and the Lady Eve," said Aslan. "And that is both honour enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor on earth. Be content.”

-C.S. Lewis Prince Caspian

Happy 114th Birthday, dear old Jack! We are forever grateful for your sense of humor, your wisdom, your love for Christ, and your brilliant books! Three Cheers or Lewis! Who's with me?

Wouldn't you love to get a letter from *him*? :)

This girl...yes, that one ^ is off to a girls' retreat tomorrow, so you shan't hear from me till the week's end at the earliest. :] *Cue weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth*... ;) No, I am sure you will do very very well without me. Your feed might even get a rest which might be nice. But I found something positively brilliant that I had to leave you with. Here's hoping it will inspire and uplift you, and help you love our dear old Jack better than ever...I found it on Narniafans.com, and thought it was such profoundly simple yet intricate writing advice from one of the best authors ever that I had to post it here to show you girls. :)

The Kilns,
Headington Quarry,
Oxford
26 June 1956

Dear Joan–

Thanks for your letter of the 3rd. You describe your Wonderful Night v. well. That is, you describe the place and the people and the night and the feeling of it all, very well — but not the thing itself — the setting but not the jewel. And no wonder! Wordsworth often does just the same. His Prelude (you’re bound to read it about 10 years hence. Don’t try it now, or you’ll only spoil it for later reading) is full of moments in which everything except the thing itself is described. If you become a writer you’ll be trying to describe the thing all your life: and lucky if, out of dozens of books, one or two sentences, just for a moment, come near to getting it across.

About amn’t I, aren’t I and am I not, of course there are no right or wrong answers about language in the sense in which there are right and wrong answers in Arithmetic. “Good English” is whatever educated people talk; so that what is good in one place or time would not be so in another. Amn’t I was good 50 years ago in the North of Ireland where I was brought up, but bad in Southern England. Aren’t I would have been hideously bad in Ireland but very good in England. And of course I just don’t know which (if either) is good in modern Florida. Don’t take any notice of teachers and textbooks in such matters. Nor of logic. It is good to say “more than one passenger was hurt,” although more than one equals at least two and therefore logically the verb ought to be plural were not singular was!

What really matters is:–

1. Always try to use the language so as to make quite clear what you mean and make sure your sentence couldn’t mean anything else.

2. Always prefer the plain direct word to the long, vague one. Don’t implement promises, but keep them.

3. Never use abstract nouns when concrete ones will do. If you mean “More people died” don’t say “Mortality rose.”

4. In writing. Don’t use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was “terrible,” describe it so that we’ll be terrified. Don’t say it was “delightful”; make us say “delightful” when we’ve read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers, “Please will you do my job for me.”

5. Don’t use words too big for the subject. Don’t say “infinitely” when you mean “very”; otherwise you’ll have no word left when you want to talk about something really infinite.

Thanks for the photos. You and Aslan both look v. well. I hope you’ll like your new home.

With love
yours
C.S. Lewis

Glimpses of Greatness

Sometimes, as in hearing our own voice for too long, we can grow weary of our own writing. Or at least I can. I begin to feel that my problems with my story, my issues with word choice or plot progression are all there is in the realm of literature. Thank heaven that is not true, for what a pickle we'd be in! So I like to refresh myself with delicious excerpts from other writers. They refresh, while at the same time challenge me to examine my writing and try to do better. So I thought I'd share with you a few excerpts that thrilled me:

Gentian Hill by Elizabeth Goudge (haven't read the book, just this quote. :)

"My name is Stella Sprigg, " said Stella. "What is your name?" To her, as to all children, names were tremendously important. Your Christian name, joining you to God, your surname linking you to your father. If you had both names you had your place in the world, walking safely along with a hand held upon either side. If you had neither you were in a bad way, you just fell down and did not belong anywhere, and if you only had one you only half belonged.
"Zachary," said the boy.
"Only Zachary?"
"Only Zachary."
"Just a Christian name?"
"That's all."
Stella looked at him with concern. Only God had hold of him. He was lopsided. She had noticed it in his gait when she first saw him walking. Then she remembered that but for Father and Mother Sprigg she would have been lopsided too, for her nameless mother had died. This memory deepened her feeling of oneness with Zachary, and she put out a small hand and laid it on his knee.
"Do you know where you come from?" she asked wonderingly.
"From the moon," replied Zachary promptly. "Haven't you seen me up there?" .....
"Zachary Moon," she said with pleasure, and felt she had got him a bit better supported upon the other side.

A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett

"Whatever comes," she said, "cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time, when no one knows it."

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

"As she came closer to him she noticed that there was a fresh clean scent of heather and leaves and grass about him, almost as if he were made from them. She liked it very much, and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and round blue eyes, she forgot that she had felt shy."

 Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery

"For we pay a price for everything we get or take in this world; and although ambitions are well worth having, they are not to be cheaply won, but exact their dues of work and self-denial, anxiety and discouragement."

The Last Battle by C.S. Lewis

“It is as hard to explain how this sunlit land was different from the old Narnia as it would be to tell you how the fruits of that country taste. Perhaps you will get some idea of it if you think like this. You may have been in a room in which there was a window that looked out on a lovely bay of the sea or a green valley that wound away among mountains. And in the wall of that room opposite to the window there may have been a looking-glass. And as you turned away from the window you suddenly caught sight of that sea or that valley, all over again, in the looking glass. And the sea in the mirror, or the valley in the mirror, were in one sense just the same as the real ones: yet at the same time they were somehow different - deeper, more wonderful, more like places in a story: in a story you have never heard but very much want to know. The difference between the old Narnia and the new Narnia was like that. The new one was a deeper country: every rock and flower and blade of grass looked as if it meant more.” 

The Magician's Nephew by C.S. Lewis

“Then two wonders happened at the same moment. One was that the voice was suddenly joined by other voices; more voices than you could possibly count. They were in harmony with it, but far higher up the scale: cold, tingling, silvery voices. The second wonder was that the blackness overhead, all at once, was blazing with stars. They didn’t come out gently one by one, as they do on a summer evening. One moment there had been nothing but darkness; next moment a thousand, thousand points of light leaped out – single stars, constellations, and planets, brighter and bigger than any in our world. There were no clouds. The new stars and the new voices began at exactly the same time. If you had seen and heard it, as Digory did, you would have felt quite certain that it was the stars themselves which were singing, and that it was the First Voice, the deep one, which had made them appear and made them sing.”

 The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis

“One word, Ma'am," he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. "One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one more thing to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things-trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that's a small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say.”

Oh mercy. I could go on and on with C.S. Lewis' Narnia all day...that man had the elusive knack for tacking down an idea with just the right word so you can practically smell what he means. :) I hope you enjoyed reading these quotes. :) What are some of your favorites? ~Rachel

Indefinable, and Day 2 of Writing Challenge

To begin with I give you Day Two of the 15-day Writing Challenge! :)

Day Two: Your Favorite Male Author

Why, oh why, oh why must these question be so difficult?! I cannot choose just one favorite male author. It's a physical impossibility, I think! :P But I suppose I can limit it to two:

1. Charles Dickens--his brilliancy never ceases to amaze me. The masterful way in which he sketches the foils and idiosyncrasies of his characters and Victorian society is stunning. He has a wicked sense of humor...he's entirely quoteable. :) And I can say I know him pretty well, having made my way through several of his novels:

Little Dorrit

Bleak House

Nicholas Nickleby

The Chimes

The Cricket on the Hearth

The Christmas Carol

Great Expectations

Barnaby Rudge

A Tale of Two Cities

And David Copperfield, which I am almost 1/2 way through. :)

2. Close second behind Dickens is C.S. Lewis because....he's amazing. His writing says the things my heart longs to find words to say. I have never read a more beautiful allegory than The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Some of the times I yearn for Heaven most is when I'm reading the ending bliss of The Last Battle. It's beautiful, and reflects the relationship Lewis had with his Lord and Savior. :)

And now I find I must leave you on a bit of a sober note, for last night I was pen-slain. Ahem. ;) I read something that completely challenged my opinion of my own writing and caused me to wonder if I was a writer after all. The only remedy for that was, I felt, to write about it. And so I did. :) You can read the musings of my bewildered pen below. And though I am not quite so gloriously dismayed this morning, I thought I'd let you read it, that it might encourage or sympathize with one of my dear readers. ~Rachel

“Indefinable: a confession of beauteous pain”

By Rachel Heffington

I sit down to the computer and pull my chair closer to the desk. It is a new writer’s blog—new to me, a least—which I am visiting. Scrolling through the recent posts, my heart warms to this author. “She has good imagery and technique,” I think in my settled, complacent mind. I click on a page marked “writing” and prepare to read a cute paragraph or two about her literary endeavors—something like the page I have on my own blog.

I read her descriptions, then settle myself in to scan through her sample chapter. The first words capture my attention. Beautifully written, neatly-turned sentences.

All at once the sheer talent of this author hits me with blinding force. Her descriptions are perfect, her imagery flawless. I am captivated by the bewitching flash of her turns of phrase and my heart aches with…a feeling indefinable.

Indefinable, why? Because I have realized, with shocking, white illumination that my pen, my mind, my imagination is too feeble to even define the sensation, let alone attain such splendor.

The hour’s work I had been so proud of yesterday shrivels, pales, and wizens into a shabby child’s picture-book challenging a leather-bound, gilt-edged novel. I shrink from this realization as one does from a celestial light.

This writer’s words are beautiful, and yet painful to me. Like one who tremblingly steals a glance at a sight too lovely for mortals, I continue to read the singing lines, the shimmering prose.

How can I ever think I am a writer after seeing such an example? My heart throbs at the thought that my beloved passion already has one who can serve it better than I myself can.

And yet, the pain is purifying; it has touched the deepest chords of my heart, and evoked a melody pregnant with longing. Longing to be a better writer, longing to spin such webs of enchantment over my readers.

I can see I have only dabbled on the surface of the great depths this writer has dredged. My words are pretty and quaint, hers beautiful and knowing.

I will never be such a writer, will I? And yet a few drops of the purifying light cling to my heart like the fairy-lamps of the fireflies in the many-hued dusk. The ache her words awaken is not a new ache. I am familiar with the sensation, for it keens in my chest when I gaze on the evening sunset cupped in the hands of the pines—a goblet of golden light spilling onto an azure cloth in the banqueting hall of the heavens.

This writer has done what I have not yet managed to do: She has found words in which to liberate the beauty on wings of passionate expression…

Her pen has cut deep. It has shaken the very foundations of my craft and shown me how very transient my writing is. It has caused me pain and made me question my fitness as a writer.

And yet it is strange. I cannot despise her for it. No indeed. The wound is like gold thrown into a furnace, that the dross may be purged. And perhaps my wondering heart may take comfort in the imagery: my writing and talent may be, in some part, valuable. But I must welcome these cuts to my pride, these wounds in my flesh, that the gold will emerge from the wondrous pain a purer and lovelier piece of craftsmanship.

A New Contest Here At the Inkpen Authoress!!!

(Not my picture. All photos in this post courtesy of Google images. :)

I am very pleased to announce the newest contest here on the Inkpen Authoress! :) Everyone, meet The Merry Auld England Writing Challenge! :)

As you all know, I am a great lover of English literature: everything Dickens, everything Austen, everything Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, everything Gaskell, everything Bronte! And my list goes on. :) England itself is a country full of magnificent literary potential. From deep forests for sunny countryside, from the coasts of Devon to the wild moors of the North, there are so many wonderful settings! So I thought, my darling readers, why not concoct a brilliant contest to celebrate this amazing country and it's legion of priceless books?! And so I did. :)

Here are the rules:

1.) Be clever, beautiful, and accomplished with your words. One of the great charms of English literature is its careful wordcrafting. :) So open up your mind and pen to the ornate thoughts and interesting words lying stale in the corners. This is a time to shine and show your love for truly great writing! :)

2.) Choose a subject that has to do with England! You could spin a tale about Bath, or a romance set in the wild of the Northlands. You could write a new story about Robin Hood and his merry men, or compose your own ending for Mrs. Gaskell's unfinished Wives and Daughters. (NOT if you've seen the BBC movie, though! ;D) You could scribble an amusing tale in the style of Dickens, or a witty story about Society people in the manner of Jane Austen. You could write a Tolkien-ish poem, or take after Tennyson and do a dramatic romance. For pity's sake, you could even astonish the world and try your hand as Shakespearing! :D The possibilities are endless!

3.) You may write your entry as a poem, a short story, or a play. Please refrain from using any bad language, crude humor, or improper views of God in your submission, as these will immediately be disqualified, however lovely the writing.

Send all submissions to inkpencontestsubmissions@gmail.com. Each participant may enter one submission into each category. :)

4.) The Prizes? (Yes, I said prizes :) I will choose one winner from each category: Poetry, Prose, and Drama. (as in a play, if I even get any entries there :) The prizes are yet to be announced, but each winner will get their work of literature published on my blog in addition to the prize. Glory! Glory! ;) After the contest all rights will revert to the author, and I promise not to change anything in the wording of the entries, scalp them of their titles, or in any other way pirate your work. :D

5.) In order to be eligible for this contest you must:

Follow this blog (I would love new followers! *sweet hopeful smile* :)

Love literature with a passion

Post about this contest on your blog or on Facebook, Twitter, or anywhere else you haunt. (Excepting, of course, those girls of you who do none of the above, in which case you're Scot-free)

And, of course, get your entry to me by September 9th, 2011! :) (That gives you girls a month to enter. I'll write up a little reminder gadget and put it up near the top of the blog in case your forget. :P)

*****THE CONTEST CLOSING DATE HAS BEEN MOVED FORWARD TO SEPTEMBER 23, 2011******

So pens ready? On your mark, get set, be brilliant!!! My pen salutes your own. I hope many many writers enter this contest! It'll be great! I will make a button for the contest at some point, so stay tuned for that. :) Thanks so much for entering! ~Rachel

A Silly Wish of Mine :)

Oh mercy on us. This is a day in which I could clasp my hands, rise dramatically from the sofa, give a faint groan, and fall down in a swoon over my great longing for something.

What is that something?

To have a discussion with Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, and C.S. Lewis.

To ask them all the questions running around my mind.

Things like, "Were you satisfied with your writing or did you think there were problems in it?"

"Did you know you were writing something brilliant?"

"And you could you please, very gently, read my writing and tell me what you think of it?"

And then I'd blush, and not be able to look at them, and they'd take my poor little book in their hands.

Jane Austen would let her "fine eyes" twinkle at my earnestness, and she'd make a witty remark or two, never letting on what her true opinion was.

Charles Dickens would turn the pages with a languid hand, then stare at me intensely for a full moment, contemplating how he could turn me into a character for one of his novels.

C.S. Lewis, the darling, would be a true gentleman and deal with me kindly, a gentle smiling creeping across his face. He'd fiddle with his pipe, clear his throat, and smile.

And there I'd sit, wishing I had never wished the moment into existence, and I suppose before too long they'd answer all my questions. I don't know why I felt the urge to go off on this tangent of my imagination, but there it is. :)

Do you ever have such an ache to meet these Greats? And all the while knowing you'd be scared silly and make a terrible impression of yourself on them because you were so nervous? :P

But truly, I wonder. Do people destined for literary success ever know it beforehand? Or do they follow many another great person and never have an inkling of what they're starting? I just wonder...and then I smile at how silly I am. :)

My Friends of Antiquity

The sweet novels of Louisa May Alcott, the whirling gaiety of characters peopling the pages of Dickens' books, the perfect wording and heart-touching allegories of C.S. Lewis' Narnia series, the gentle humor of James Herriot's veterinary adventures, the beautiful poetry and careful mythology of Tolkein's middle earth, and the charm of Prince Edward Island and a certain red-haired lass who live there concocted by Lucy Maud Montgomery...the unbroken secrecy of that Secret Garden and the troubles of the Little Princess so unforgettably told, the wit and social juxtapositions of Jane Austen's novels, the passionate romance of Jane Eyre....these are the books I have loved and always will love.

My earliest brushes with book-love were when I was a little bit of a girl and Mama would read aloud to us. She always chose the best books, and I grew to feel as if Hans Brinker and his silver skates, or Heidi and her mountain chalet were as real to me as anybody and anyplace I knew. Mama took the greatest of care not to let us read or read to us "twoddly" books. Books that were, perhaps, popular but had no more "meat" to them than a canary. All bright feathers and no use except to provide a little amusement.

My young mind, raised on the classic tales of childhood that never grow old, soon acquired its own voracious appetite for reading. Naturally I looked to the sort of books that had started my love of literature, and before I knew it I had read Little Women a dozen times, worn down the edges of Anne of Green Gables, and could quote pieces of them by heart.

A few years later, spurred onward by mention of these works in the very books I love, I peeped my nose into The Pickwick Papers, never to lose my delight in Dickens. :) My literary tastes have been carefully cultured toward the classics: the best of the best. And I find now that I can't stomach anything less than wonderful books. It is a taste I do not wish to change, and one that I'm blessed I possess. Why would one spend time reading something second-rate when there are thick volumes of tried-and-true novels pining away in dark corners of the library for lack of sufficient modern popularity? It is my mission to hunt up these books and divulge myself of their secrets, then spread round the word and try to renew their popularity amongst my fellow literary friends. :)

There is only one problem though with my loving classic literature so much. Actually, two reasons.

1.) I know good writing when I see it, and I sometimes can't write the way I wish to.

2.) My writing has a decidedly old-fashioned flair which is not so much in vogue at present.

To address issue number one, I can but continue to practice my writing and hope that someday I might write something that may endure through the most critical eye that falls upon it.

Now issue number two. It is something I cannot change, and do not really wish to change. The things and people one loves always color one's own writing. And so among my characters and descriptions you will find distinct impressions of the people and books that have inspired me. I do not mean unoriginality. No indeed. I abhor copying, and even squirm at fan-fiction, feeling that C.S. Lewis and C.S. Lewis alone should write about Narnia. It was *his* world, and ought not to be tampered with.

But I do admit that I gain inspiration and ideas from my reading. My writing is old-fashioned, and there is nothing wrong with that. Indeed, it made me feel warm and happy when a certain sweet young lady sent me my first real "fan-mail" and said my writing reminded her of Louisa May Alcott.

These authors are the ones I grew up on, the ones I love best, the ones I would give my right hand to be like. So I do not apologize over my style. I merely wonder if it will ever find a publisher, or if it is destined to follow after Anne Shirley's Camelot dreams:

"Romance may have been appreciated in Camelot, but it certainly is not in Avonlea." ;)

And so I wondered, dear readers, if you could recommend any truly great modern books. I love Jan Karon's Mitford series. She has a certain warmth that I can identify readily with. I don't particularly want to read any of those Christian romance novels, as that is not what I write and so I have no need to read them. I am looking for books that possess the beautiful qualities of my hundred-year-old favorites. Noble ideals, clear ideas of good and evil, wit, humor, tenderness, and fantastic story-telling and description.

If you have any recommendations I would love to hear of them! You can leave them in a comment or email me, whichever you would rather.

Perhaps I have hit upon the point though. Perhaps my favorite books will always be resigned to the ranks of respectable antiquity, and my writing will follow after them without gaining much of a following. Who really cares? I will be satisfied and I trust that a kindred spirit or two will read my scribbling, detect the shadow of a mutual friend or two inside the pages, and will think of them fondly as they read.

~Rachel

Thinking Outside of the Description Box :)

When I write, I love using unusual metaphors, descriptions, etc. to show a common thing in an uncommon light.
New word pictures that haven't been used so many times you can see straight through them.
Interesting word choices.
Descriptions that make people think. But not in such a way that it leaves people puzzling over what I mean.

Dickens is the master of this illusive technique-

"The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour."

When I read this quote I always know exactly what the weather was like- I am almost there inside it with the characters. :)

One of my favorite descriptions of a child is found in E. Nesbit's The Railway Children:

"There were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course, Mothers never have favourites, but if their Mother had had a favourite, it might have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who wished to be an Engineer when he grew up; and the youngest was Phyllis, who meant extremely well."

I absolutely *love* that description of Phyllis. Don't we all know a little child who, if not exactly well-behaved, means extremely well? :)

And then of course we have C.S. Lewis' stunning description of Aslan's voice in The Silver Chair:

"Anyway, she had seen its lips move this time, and the voice was not like a man's. It was deeper, wilder, and stronger; a sort of heavy, golden voice. It did not make her feel any less frightened than she had been before, but it made her frightened in rather a different way."

It's fun to mess around in your writing with creative descriptions. Take a description of the summer heat. Let's say this is the original that you want to spice up:
"It was the heat of summer. The air was hotter than an oven, and silent, except for the cicadas buzzing in the the trees."

You could take a sheet of paper, and write different descriptions, like this:

"It was high summer- the time of year when you're careful not to stand too close to someone for fear of sticking together."

-Or-

"It was August. The world lay in languid silence beneath the sweltering sun, all nature lulled into a heated sleep except for the insects who rasped in the trees with persistent monotony."

-Or-
"Summertime was here in earnest. Popsicle melting weather. Dash-across-the-blacktop-to-avoid-blisters-on-your-feet weather. The time of year when everyone means to do yard work, but no one gets past a glass of lemonade beneath the shade tree."

Just play around with your own ideas and try out different styles and combinations! :) It's so much fun. Oh! And I mustn't forget to remind you once again about the A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words" contest! :) -Rachel

A New Side of C.S. Lewis

Who doesn't love C.S. Lewis? His Chronicles of Narnia series will never fail to delight and inspire its readers, and I understand his non-fiction books are equally amazing! :) I don't know about you all, but there is nothing I like better than to discover a new side to one of my favorite authors! :) So today while at my aunt's house when Sarah brought over a volume of C.S. Lewis's poetry, I knew I had to take a look! For some reason it had never crossed my mind that anyone who excelled so in prose could turn out such lovely poetry! Some of it, indeed, had a strange meter to it, but I found much of it beautiful! The discovery gave me the sort of feeling I had when I found out that Rachel Field, long one of my favorite poets, was an acclaimed authoress of novels also! :) Here are two of the poems that I found especially thoughtful. Beware though, you will have to put your mind to thinking a bit more with his poetry than if you are reading Robert Louis Stevenson! ;)

"Late Summer"
by C.S. Lewis

I, dusty and bedraggled as I am,
Pestered with wasps and weeds and making jam,
Blowzy and stale, my welcome long outstayed,
Proved false in every promise that I made,
At my beginning I believed, like you,
Something would come of all my green and blue.
Mortals remember, looking on the thing
I am, that I, even I, was once a spring.

Isn't that so bittersweet? Mama said it reminded her of an elderly person! :( The next poem, is addressed to "Andrew Marvell". I hadn't a clue who he was, so I took the liberty of Google-searching him, and found he was a poet in the late 17th century... I suppose he was criticized for writing light verse, as the general taste ran toward heavy, thinking, poetry, but I found the ideas in this poem very well fit my taste in poetry! (excepting the "godlike power" part, of course!) :)

"To Andrew Marvell"
by C.S. Lewis
Marvell, they say your verse is faint
Beside the range of Donne's;
Too clear for them, too free from taint
Of noise, your music runs.

Their sultry minds can ill conceive
How godlike power should dwell
Except where lungs with torment heave
And giant muscles swell.

The better swordsman with a smile
His cool passado gives;
Smooth is the flooding of the Nile
By which all Egypt lives.

Sweetness and strength from regions far
Withdrawn and strange you bring,
And look no stronger than a star
No graver than the spring.

*Passado: a thrust in fencing with one foot advanced
So I hope you enjoyed this rather deeper journey into poetry...this is the sort of thing that real poets write...*goes off to sigh over her own poetry* ;) I think it would be ever so much easier to write poetry for children! *goes off again to read "A Child's Garden of Verses"* ;) -Rachel