What the Dickens...?

I’m going to take a stand and proclaim what I have learned as one of {perhaps the} the single most important keys to becoming a great writer. Ready? All right...

I guest-posted over at Living on Literary Lane this morning, so if you feel like reading more about what I've determined to be the single most important thing about being a successful author, head over there!
Second, it has been long and too long since I've had myself a Dickens-dive. Honestly, I think its been since Oliver Twist which was too short. Sure I'm in the middle of reading A Voice in the Wind (but ancient Greece and Rome isn't really my thing.) and The Narnian, but I feel a need for immersion in Charles Dickens strong upon me. Which should I read? Since graduating I have the most plummy stack of his titles on my shelf:

Bleak House
Oliver Twist
Great Expectations
A Tale of Two Cities 
Nicholas Nickleby
Hard Times
The Christmas Carol
The Cricket on the Hearth
The Chimes
The Pickwick Papers

I'm in the mood for something funny and droll, so probably I'll reread Pickwick or Nickleby. I've read all those titles except for Hard Times, but I'm not in the mood for a drearier title so I'll save it for later. In addition to---AH! I had forgotten I was recently given Dombey and Son! I ought to read that!--anyhow, in addition to those titles, I've also read Little Dorrit, The Old Curiosity Shop, and Barnaby Rudge. Wow. I'm a lot closer to having read all of Dickens' novels than I thought! Exciting! That's an item on my bucket-list, you know. :)
Well, lots to do today so toodle-pip and have a nice giddy-biscuit for me if you think of it.

Soup or Salad? A Boxing Match between Hugo and Dickens. :)

I have only about 500 pages of Les Miserables left, which means I am just about 2/3 of the way through that elephantine book. It has been an Olympian task, I will admit, reading this 1463-page giant! I am not finished, of course, but I have found it to be a great stimulant to my mind. It demands me to think.

Think? The nerve!

I am reading the un-abridged version and I will admit that I know why they abridge the book. You see, Victor Hugo, in my opinion, did not decide whether he was writing a book of essays or a novel. Indeed, if you summed up all his dissertations on Waterloo, Napoleon, Convents, Bishops, the Parisian gamin, young love, beauty, guilt, prison, poverty, and everything else, you would find that bit far heavier in page-weight than the actual plot.
This, of course, got me to thinking--if Les Miserables was intended to be a social commentary (as I can only assume it was) what possessed Victor Hugo to write a novel? Okay. Let me first explain myself. I am a Dickens-girl. Every one of Charles Dickens' books are loaded with political, social, and occasionally spiritual commentaries and parallels. They can only be classified as Social Commentaries. So what is the difference between Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens?

Hugo--what a comely old bird!

Dickens--hair brilliantly askew. ;)

The difference is this:
                Victor Hugo made a salad, Charles Dickens made a brew.
               Victor chopped his words up coarsely, Charles stirred and stirred his stew.
               Flavors sep'rate, flavors mingled; both a mighty turn of phrase,
                But the stew will go down quicker--Hugo puts me in a daze.

Ahem. Forgive the lapse into poetry. :P That little ditty is the definition of these two authors in my opinion. Victor Hugo, while an amazing author, bewilders me with his constant division. He carries the plot for a few pages, then casts it aside while he lectures. You almost begin to wonder if his characters serve only as lackeys to carry his social-dissertations. I like his lectures. I like his plot. But in my opinion, he did rather a careless, clumsy job of mingling the two.

Charles Dickens, on the other hand, took his social ideas, his morals, his lectures, and mixed them into his plot and characters so seamlessly that, to speak childishly, "You can't find the pill amongst the jam." I have seldom felt the weariness in reading Dickens that I feel in finding myself at the brink of yet another 30-page ramble through a random history with Victor Hugo for an overly-zealous guide.
Now, please understand that I am not hacking on Les Miserables--I am actually enjoying the book and I will do a review once I am finished. I am merely commenting on Victor Hugo's style and the way he executed all the brilliant things kerbobbling around his mind.

I think it's a case of two men, one who loved his country best, the other his people. Victor Hugo's beloved is France--the country--and though he loves the people, his patriotism outshines his plot. Charles Dickens loved his people--social commentary comes through because he cared about what was happening to his countrymen and wished to set things right. Both men have noble motives--both are fabulous authors.

I suppose you just have to decide on a given day whether you'd rather have a salad or a bowl of soup. :)

It has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!

It is so hard to believe that tomorrow is Christmas Day. It seems to me that each year I live flies by on swifter, wilder wings--I can scarce make myself realize that it has been a whole year since this time last year. December took me by storm and for quite some time I was labouring under the delusion that it was early December when we were already in the "teens". Oops. :)

There is much discussion among some circles of Christian society over whether we ought to celebrate Christmas during this time of year because it used to be a Pagan holiday. My answer to this predicament comes entirely from the mouth of Ebenezer Scrooge's nephew in A Christmas Carol:

"There are many things from which I might have derived good by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned the nephew, "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas-time, when it has come round-apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that-as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

I do not worship my Christmas tree, nor do I celebrate the Winter Solstice. I am not leaving out cookies for Santa Clause, nor am I doing anything else questionable. At Christmas time, as all through the year (though in not so grand a degree) I celebrate the birth of my King, and I do think such an event is worthy of an entire month of celebration which--did we not use December--mightn't be carved out so easily elsewhere in the year.
I was out shopping with my older brother yesterday and found it amusing to wish everyone a "Merry Christmas" as I saw them, regardless of whether I knew them or not. The reactions were rather funny at times, as everyone sort of jumped and looked after me as much as to say, "What's she so happy about?"
It is true--I have an uncommon reason to be happy, and so have you. Because of the birth of a tiny baby--one who was born into obscurity, lived at odds with his society, died the most disgraceful death the Romans could conjure up--I have eternal life. That's something to smile about, be you white, black, young old, American, or something-else. In this best and most perfect "Merry Christmas", we have and escort into the Way Everlasting. It's a beautiful Christmas gift.

"And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, "God bless us, Every One!"

15-day Challenge: Day Four: Inspiration

15-Day Challenge Day Four:
{A novel or author that has inspired something in your writing style}

I am one so apt to catch grains of inspiration as they fall from each book I open that this is rather an interesting question for me. But of course I now realize the happy truth that the question is a writer or book, not the writer or book.

"Let us proceed at once to business. What is the use of delay when we agreed to take that up the first thing?" ~The Society for the Suppression of Gossip (hilarious Victorian play, that)

ANY-whoo, to answer the question, I am afraid I must again choose two authors, and one of those authors will be making his second appearance in this 15-day challenge:

1. Louisa May Alcott- I have always felt a deep connection with this author's novels. You see, being the eldest sister in a chunk of four girls right in the middle of our big family, I felt much like Meg with Jo, Beth, and Amy to look after. Even our personalities match up to the March girls! So it was only natural that my life would be rather Little Women-ish, and it will not surprise you to hear that we started our own literary society when my fellow members were 9, 6, and 4 respectively. *Harumph* (Needless to say, talent was limited. :P)
Louisa May Alcott novels are sweet and innocent, and I feel each time I put one down that I walk away a better girl for it. Morals and wisdom are entwined so effortlessly in the windings of the story that one doesn't know one has learned anything, and yet the day is colored by noble ideals afterward.
I did not realize her writing had truly influenced mine until I'd had...oh...probably near a dozen people tell me that my books remind them so much of Louisa May Alcott's. Someone said that The Seasonings had the flavor of Eight Cousins about it. :)

2. Charles Dickens. I know, I know you must be sick to death of hearing about him. You must think I never read anything else. But I had to bring him in, because I have come to realize that he has influenced me in the forming of my characters. I am continually delighted with the ream of people I find in the pages of his novels. They are so queer and quaint and unusual. He can concoct the most interesting mash of qualities into a larger-than-life personality that one remembers forever. In Puddleby Lane, particularly, one character is fashioned on purpose in the Dickensian style. :)

It did not take as long as Cora expected to get to town. Perhaps it was the cheerful conversation of Ann Company, or the novelty of walking like a caravan of gypsies down a sandy road, that made the two miles seem like a hundred yards, but Cora did not feel at all fatigued when they finally reached the train station.

Piper’s Corner was not so bleak after all. Cora tilted her head at the station. Still windswept, and the row of wax myrtles weren’t the most robust bushes she’d ever encountered, but there was a certain charm even in the loneliness.

“Hey, Pa!” Ann Company’s shout startled Cora, and she turned to find Tucker and Dot sitting on the edge of the platform.

“Don’t sit so near the edge, Tuck. What if a train came along?”

“Shoot, Miz Cora! There’s only the nine-fifteen, the one-thirty, and the five-forty-five that comes through here this time a’year. Tucker could sit there another three hours an’ he’d be no worse’n me fer it.”

“Can I, Cora?” Tucker hammered the side of the platform with the heels of his shoes.

“Certainly not.”

A heavy hand descended on Cora’s shoulder. “Well what’ve we got here? A pack of young’uns?”

Cora turned to find Flounder’s red face crinkled up in what she supposed to be a grin. “Good morning, Flounder.”

“Good mornin’ to you.” He withdrew his hand and stuck his thumbs through his suspenders. The sleeves of his shirt were still rolled up. And was it the same shirt? If not, surely the ink-stains on the cuffs had been duplicated with a careful eye to authenticity.

Ann Company adjusted Flounder’s collar and brushed crumbs from the front of his shirt. “I’m fixin’ t’give these kids a tour a’Piper’s Corner.”

Flounder patted Ann Company’s curly hair as if she was a favorite puppy of his and cast his wall-eye at Cora, Tucker, and Dot. “A splendid idear. I splendid idear. Didn’t I say this mornin’, Ann Company, it’d be a splendid idear?”

“I b’lieve you did, Pa. That’s what put it in m’head in th’ first place.”

Flounder shook his head like a ponderous bull-dog. “Splendid idears sometimes do come to me, you know. Though some might doubt it.”

“Course idears come t’you.” Ann Company, who had been putting her father in shape with many a tender push, pull, and shove the whole time, stepped back and grabbed Tucker’s hand. “I guess we’ll be goin’ now, Pa.”

“Yes, yes. And don’t forget to show your friends Adolphus.”

“I won’t, Pa.” Ann Company nodded to Cora and led the way across the tracks, leaving Eulalie near the railroad office.

See? :) Flounder is turning out to be a rather fussy but good-hearted man. He whines. Rather a Mr. Dorrit, if you will, minus the debtor's prison. I admit Dickens has influenced this character heavily, but that's okay. Since I did it on purpose, it doesn't count as copying. ;)

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. :)