The Red Shooter Hat

see? i identify with this. 

I don't know why, but when I read a classic book I usually seem to get hold of it by the wrong end. I don't go to misinterpret or to catch a different meaning than everyone else, but somehow I do. When I read, I let the story carry me. I let go of analysis until I have finished the book. Its effect on me usually remains to be seen until the final pages are gone. I don't know how to analyze as I go. And even if I did, I think I would get caught in the current of the story and forget to. When I was younger I used to grow frustrated that I couldn't foresee the solution of a mystery when my brother, bless his soul, could guess in three pages who had done it and how, and possibly in which room. Then I grew older, and it frustrated me (and still frustrates me) that I seem to interpret books differently than the official analysis. Take, Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee. That book made critics throw back their heads and howl with pain as Lee allegedly ripped the character of Atticus as we know him, to shreds. When I read the book I was disappointed in Atticus, yet Lee had built her characters and story-world well enough that the shift in conviction didn't exactly ruin Atticus for me. It made him even more real...because he has a (very large) flaw that one didn't see in To Kill a Mockingbird but that one could believe given his age and times. There is an argument to be made for the idea that Harper Lee didn't intend the version of Atticus seen in Go Set a Watchman to be the Atticus the world knew because, after all, she published TKAM and Atticus mightn't yet have been in his final form in its prequel. There is that argument (I spent some time this weekend arguing the point with the aforementioned brother) and that is a topic for another post. But the fact remains that I didn't react the way the majority of the public reacted to Go Set A Watchman.

Likewise, upon strength of recommendation from a friend, I dived into J.D. Salinger's work this week. He is best known, I believe, for The Catcher in The Rye. I've read that and am now halfway through Franny & Zooey. Since I entered Catcher not knowing anything about it, really, except that it was generally regarded as something People Should Read, I had no preconceived notions about what it would or would not be. My initial reaction was that Salinger is a darn good wordsmith. The best way I can describe the way his writing effects me is that it feels like soda bubbles up one's nose. It's unexpected and fresh and totally different than most anything else I've ever read. My second reaction was that I, too, could write like Salinger if I replaced all my adjectives with swearing. My third reaction was that Catcher's main character, Holden Caulfield, was a boy who'd grown up too fast. His morals are questionable at every turn, but his heart is gold. I know that sounds like an anomaly. Perhaps it is. But what I saw in the character was a boy who has rushed headlong into the world and its many pleasures and yet finds himself confused by the hollow chaos and unsure how to handle how he feels about it. He is kind-hearted. He is smart. He is empty. He is generous. He has known tragedy and he has known happiness, in some small way. The kid's winded, that's for sure. He's going to kill himself presently if he doesn't get a grip, but I had a soft spot for Holden Caulfield.

Thus ran my mind as I closed The Catcher in The Rye and totted the name on my List of Books Read in 2016. Later on I looked up the book online to see what the GP (General Populace) thought of it and found that, apparently, I took away the wrong takeaway from the novel. It is reputed to be a manifesto of teen rebellion; the most censored book of the baby boomers' era; the mental ramblings of an obsessed kid; an inspiration for several shooters, including John Lennon's killer. And I swear to you most earnestly, I can't figure out why on my own. Once I looked up a couple articles, of course, I saw what they meant...if you're an over-thinker and like to overthink things. I mean, if you want to think hard enough about a grape, I guess you can decide it's a raisin and you wouldn't be wrong. You'd just be scrutinizing it past the point of good sense. Or maybe my difficulty is that I don't scrutinize much at all. I'm perfectly happy, if it's a good story, to take the story at face value. I like discussing deep things and ulterior motives and various interpretations, but I'm what Shakespeare would call a "pleasant-spirited lady" and I don't like assigning sketchy backstory to people helter-skelter. I'm more than willing to believe you are what you appear to be, until you give me a reason to think otherwise. I mean, take Holden Caulfield. Yeah, he's an emotionally unstable person given to hyperbole, but you don't exactly go around asking people if they're mad, do you? My problem is that characters become very real to me and I treat them, subconsciously, as if they were real acquaintances. I can imagine my friendship with Holden Caulfield going this way:

Me: "Hello, I'm Rachel."

H.C.: "What're you *%#% introducing yourself to me for?"

Me: "Oh, I thought you looked lonely. It's a little cold out here. Want to step inside?"

H.C. looks at me and shrugs.

Me: "Let's go."

We step inside, camera shifts, H.C. shudders some rain off his coat.

Me: "That's a dashing hat. Very red."

H.C.: "Why the &$#@$@ does everyone comment on my hat? Isn't a fella allowed to wear a $%#$3 hat every once in a while if he wants to?"

Me: "Well, it's a very nice hat."

H.C. begrudgingly: "Gee, thanks."

I'd come away thinking that H.C. was a bit of a crab, had a great many peculiarities, but was probably a fairly nice person on the whole. I wouldn't sit there and psychoanalyze him and start getting a pathological fear of people who wear red deerstalker hats and try not to go home so they won't get into trouble with their parents for flunking out of yet another school. I mean, don't get me wrong: Holden Caulfield has problems. But I think I'm the one about to develop a paranoia of letting madmen go undetected. The really disturbing part is when, like with the quote above, I identify with the supposedly nut-so character in question.

I hate the fact that I don't pick up on subtle cues in literature. I'm not a great one for symbolism. I like people to say what they mean but I don't mind if it has two or three meanings. I like complexity. But I'm also not going to assume that when you put a character in a red hat he bought in New York City, that he needs a psychiatrist. I mean, give a man a sartorial break. At any rate, this is why I don't do book reviews on my blog; I always seem to come away with quite a different impression than the author intended and I'm not sure what that says about me. So now I want to open up a discussion and ask you: are you one of the dedicated G.P. that foresee the psychological conclusion of a character like Holden Caulfield or are you more like me: a woman a bit shy to clap the shackles of a sanitarium on a person who hasn't proved himself in any concrete way to be a total loony? 

Eleven on the Eiffel Tower

Hey, Guys! Last Monday I was not at all in town (Tampa is a beautiful place to spend a March Monday), and this Monday I'm late with the post, but I'm definitely posting, so that's something. I did a lot of talking-about-books in Tampa. The friends with whom I stayed are the sort of people who have read widely, who laugh at my affinity for the 19th Century British Novel, and who are able to suggest improvements to my course of reading. I've been told to read Crime And Punishment as soon as possible and to follow it up with some J.D. Salinger ("All of Salinger is great - he only published four books."). While in Tampa, I had the chance to go to Oxford Exchange - probably the most pretentiously-hipster place I ever hope to set foot in. There was, of course, an entire section devoted to books and I did, of course, have to buy at least one. I chose a creative's travel-guide to London in preparation for my trip next year and a newish French novel - The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain. I'm not saying the latter choice was the most groundbreaking literature ever written (it was a simple, sweet, predictable, very enjoyable story), but I loved it. Sometimes, you know, you just want a book that does exactly what you hope it will do. The Red Notebook did that. I got so lost in the book that I momentarily forgot I was in Florida at all and had to blink round for a moment or two before I realized where I was.

Perhaps my favorite part of Oxford Exchange was when I checked out at the desk with the preppy fellow in glasses. He slipped the titles across the desk to himself, palm down. His mouth quirked in a smile as he read the titles.
"London...and Paris....which will it be?"
I laughed. "Going to London next year."
"But why not go to Paris too? I mean, you're already over there." He announced my total and leaned on the counter. "You can take the tunnel or something."
I couldn't not let my cracking-grin out. "Have you been?"
"Yeah. When I was twelve. I wish I remembered more of it. I'm sorry I can't give you recommendations."
"That's all right. I want to go to the Eiffel Tower at eleven o'clock at night." I don't know why I told him that, but it wanted to be announced."
He grinned. "Yeah? Why eleven o'clock?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think it'd be prettiest then. The city might be a little quiet. The lights would all be out. I might have it more to myself."
He tossed his head and laughed. "I bet everyone has that idea."
"Yeah, probably."
"Well, hey, eleven o'clock's all right, but you don't want to be out in Paris after midnight. They say strange things start to happen."
"Is that so?" My mind swirled around and caught hold of his reference, tugging me back to the surface. "Right - well, I think I'll be all right as long as I don't get into any old cars with dead authors."
He beamed. "Exactly - you know, the movie?"
"Yeah! Midnight in Paris." I mentally blessed that random film choice on a Russian airline and turned to leave. "Have a great day."
"You too! Enjoy London and Paris!"

Another bright book-realm moment of the trip was talking home-libraries with one brother and seeing the personal library of the other. So many beautiful hard-bound editions. Such a wealth of knowledge in one location. Do you ever feel like that? Like if you could just make it through the entirety of the shelves (even of one small personal library) you'd be about twice as smart as you currently are? I do constantly. And it's a hopeful thing, you know, because there's always a chance you'll stumble upon some stroke of genius in a yet-unread book.

I've also been inspired recently by something I'm hoping to turn into at least a piece of flash-fiction if not a short story. If I'm really ambitious it could make it into a novella sized story, but we'll see. For now, know that I'm reading Henry V cozily, thumbing again through Chesterton's Orthodoxy as I feel like it, and putting Crime And Punishment on hold at the library. Ho for expanding one's mind!

What are you reading, and do you have any recommendations for really good modern fiction?

In Memory of Harper Lee

Most of you (all of you) have heard that Harper Lee, author of To Kill a Mockingbird, died last week. I almost said "beloved author" but that isn't exactly true. It would be truer to say that her book was beloved, because Lee preferred to stay out of it almost entirely. Only rarely would Lee submit to an interview, and even then she preferred to be selective in what she showed of herself. I don't fault her for that - I think by the sheer fact that she gave us so little of herself and, really, so little of her talents, makes what we do have that much more precious. For so long we only had To Kill a Mockingbird. Recently added to that is Go Set a Watchman. I've read the former many times. I enjoyed the latter. At times like these, I wonder: how did Harper Lee manage to do what she did in her debut novel? Atticus Finch...I mean honestly. Can you imagine a fuller, more admirable, richer character than that? I can't. I love the world of Maycomb. It's tiny and limited and specific. It could be everywhere but it can't just be anywhere. It's the American South and Harper Lee wrote about it as only a true American Southerner could.
I don't read much "modern" American fiction, actually. My earliest diet was the classic set written in the eighteen-hundreds. You know, the usual Anne of Green Gables, all of Louisa May Alcott, and so forth. From there I jumped to Lewis and Tolkien, bashed through half of Dickens' novels, and took three tries (and, finally, success) fording through Les Miserables. The Brontes, Austen, Gaskell, and Sir Walter Scott have each had their share of space on my shelves. Wodehouse, Henry James, Dorothy Sayers, and James Herriot have had their say. I'm the veritable property of the Brits and pre-modernity Americans at this point. So to say that I'm well-versed in American fiction would be a straight-forward lie. I don't pretend to be up on my American fiction. I don't think you have to be up on your American fiction to appreciate what Harper Lee did with To Kill a Mockingbird. If writers only improve with time and practice, I'm sorry Lee didn't write more. Almost sorry, though. Because if she was going to be a one-shot wonder, she used her chance well. She gave Americans a novel to conjure with, and influenced so many, many people with her story. What more could you want as a writer?

I hope you'll all join me in remembering Harper Lee and the fine legacy she left American fiction. If you'd like, leave your favorite To Kill A Mockingbird or Go Set a Watchman quote in the comments below as a little memorial to the author who left us Atticus, Scout, Jem, Dill, Calpurnia, and the rest. Rest in peace, Harper Lee.

A Dose of Jane

Jane Austen never ceases to amaze me. I had forgotten just how much I enjoyed Northanger Abbey until I opened my copy last week and happened across this treasure trove: 

"I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding--joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens--there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. "I am no novel-reader--I seldom look into novels--Do not imagine that I often read novels--It is really very well for a novel." Such is the common cant. "And what are you reading, Miss--?" "Oh! It is only a novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. "It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it.

Bwahaha! You cannot help up laugh at the caricature, especially if you are familiar with some of the ideas of novels held in the old classic books. Even I am guilty of saying, with an abashed expression on my face, "Oh, it's only such-and-such a one."

What is it that brings up such feelings of bashfulness? First off, I must explain that the general concept of a "novel" in most classic books of fiction refer to a thriller-novel. The blood and gore, scandal and intrigue that peppered the sensational books of the day. The sort of the book Jo March of Little Women tried her hand at and the sort Proff. Bhaer disapproved of. They were generally what I call "fluffery"...the equivalent of those horrid 25-cent romances you can (but hopefully never will) buy at the thrift store. The kind that are written in mass droves and you'd be ashamed to be caught dead in the middle of.
Now moving on, the type of book Jane Austen was referring to was obviously the right sort of novel...like her own. :) Books that shape and mold you for good. I appreciate this quote:
It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it.  ~Oscar Wilde
It is entirely true. The books you turn to in your free time really are the books that will effect you. That's why it's so important that we take Benjamin Franklin's advice and "write things worth reading and read things worth writing." To a writer it's all connected. The things we read influence our writing which is something someone else will read that may influence their writing and so on.
It's rather a grave responsibility, if you want to get philosophical about it. :) But that is why I feel that my first task as a writer is to pledge to write and read only the best of literature. The world has enough fluffery, enough sensationalism, enough dime novels...it is hungering for something worthwhile.
My goal is, and has long been, to write good literature that reflects the beauty of Christ and points others to Him. I am determined to be one author that stands above the sea of other scribblers because I have, with God's grace written: "Some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language."
  I have not arrived at that point yet, I know. I cannot by any means claim that I have achieved my goal, but hopefully, in good time, I will be nearer it. :) I hope you enjoyed this post, or at least that it challenged you to think on the topic of good vs. best.
                                                   ~Rachel

The Long and Short of It

Following close on the heels of the post about description in my books, I thought it appropriate to look to the masters and see what they have to say on the subject. After all, I am only an aspiring authoress, not a critically acclaimed writer. (Though you all are sweet and encouraging indeed)

I don't mean "the masters" as in the people who sit back and point fingers and tell you how you ought to be a better writer and show instead of tell and that sort of thing. (though that is often helpful) I mean the masters who are beloved authors and whose books are destined to last throughout literature-dom. :)

I will begin with a demonstration of How Not To Do It, by Sir Walter Scott, who excelled at lengthy descriptions:

"The human figures which completed this landscape were in number two, partaking, in their dress and appearance, of that wild and rustic character which belonged to the woodlands of the West Riding of Yorkshire at that early period. The eldest of these men had a stern, savage, and wild aspect. His garment was of the simplest form imaginable, being a close jacket with sleeves, composed of the tanned skin of some animal, on which the hair had been originally left, but which had been worn off in so many places that it would have been a difficult to distinguish, from the patches that remained, to what creature the fur had belonged. This primeval vestment reached from the throat to the knees, and served at once all the usual purposes of body-clothing; there was no wider opening at the collar than was necessary to admit the passage of the head, from which it may be inferred that it was put on by slipping it over the head and shoulders, in the manner of a modern shirt, or ancient hauberk. Sandals, bound with thongs made of boar's hide, protected the feet, and a roll of thin leather was twined artificially round the legs, and, ascending above the calf, left the knees bare, like those of Scottish Highlander. To make the jacket sit yet more close to the body, it was gathered at the middle by a broad leathern belt...."

And so on and so on and so on until you wonder whether you accidentally stumbled into a costume designer 101 class instead of trying to enjoy Ivanhoe. Now, do take care in my criticism, to remember that I count Ivanhoe as one of my favorite classics, despite wading through page upon page of trifling descriptions.

This technique, of choking the reader with superfluous finery was much used during the 1800's. I guess it is just a preference. There are cases when this can be used as an effective tool. Take the opening of Charles Dicken's Little Dorrit. He uses an extremely long description of the glaring sun at the Quarantine station in Marseilles to convey actual physical discomfort to the reader. I read this book in December, but by the end of the first few pages, I truly felt hot. :) Look it up. You can read the first chapter here:

I feel like Dickens used his length to good effect, while Sir Walter Scott dabbled too long and too far in bits and pieces. However, this technique of long-winded-ness, even if it does have a point, is looked down upon these days.

The general consensus is that less is more. Showing things instead of telling them. Adding the description here and there like hidden nuggets, instead of taking time to spotlight it in its own paragraph. Take this excerpt from Jan Karon's Out To Canaan:

"At the hardware, Dora Pugh shook her head and sighed. Betrayed by yesterday's dazzling sunshine, she had done display windows with live baby chicks, wire garden fencing, seeds, and watering cans. Now she might as well haul the snow shovels back and do a final clearance on salt for driveways."

Here Jan Karon told us what the window of the hardware store looked like while still having it move the plot along and tell us something...that it was still cold out. :) The only danger with less description is that the story can begin to feel as if it's happening in a void.

The third, and one of my favorite kinds of description is one that Charles Dickens uses a lot: that of unusual comparisons and word choices. Here's an example in The Pickwick Papers:

" 'Stand aside then. Now for it.' The boy shouted and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen young rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter was. The old gentleman fired by way of a reply. Down fell one bird and off flew the others."

"...in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter was." Isn't that so clever? Dickens is definitely a favorite of mine. :)

Try out the various styles of description in your own writing and see what works best! Pair them up and find the best style for you.

What Should I Read Next?

I am missing being able to upload pictures on Blogger. It's been sketchy for the past few days and won't let me do anything fancy. Not even italic. (Like I discussed last post :P)So this a lull after the storm of the Thousand Words Story Contest. I can no longer thunder at you about entering or flash warnings like lightening about how long you have left. ;)
I had forgotten how much I love burying my nose in the thick of a book and forgetting about the outside world for an hour or so. Because until recently, the garden has literally kept me so busy I haven't had time for reading! Not a whit! :(

*Lets that thought soak in and is a little astonished, it is so unlike her*

I just finished one of George MacDonald's Scottish novels, The Minister's Restoration, and greatly enjoyed it. I can't say I quite agree on all his theological statements, but then again, I could hardly understand some of them. But all in all it was a great book with a great message about God's redeeming love and power, and how he can restore the worst of sinners.
I know this sounds like an exaggeration, but I have read pretty nearly every book in my house, and my cousin's house, and so to read a book I didn't already know the storyline to was bliss. :) Especially when it turned out well and everyone married who they should and didn't marry who they shouldn't. (And yes, there is a difference. :D)
So I need help deciding something...It's on the topic of what I ought to read next. I have several books, actually, that either need to be read or re-read. Here are the choices! Leave a comment and tell me which to do!
Les Miserables by Victor Hugo (tried twice already...third time's the charm?)
Tortured for Christ by Richard Wurmbrand (recently finished his "In God's Underground")
Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen (already have read, but want a refresher course)
Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell (have read but want to refresh)
The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens (same story here--hilarious, by the way)

Oh! And have any of you read Lorna Doone by R.D. Blackmore? I absolutely adored it! It is different than the movie, (meaning way better) because John Ridd was far more a gentleman, and there weren't all those unnecessary kisses. :P I highly, highly recommend the book for guys or girls. My brother, Daniel, read it and loved it as much as I!
Till Next Time, When I Hope Blogger Has Recovered,
Rachel