"It was a dark and stormy night...."

Given that it is Halloween, I thought you all might like to know exactly where the phrase "It was a dark and stormy night...." originated.

It was the opening line in Edward George Bulwer-Lytton's 1830 book Paul Clifford.

Here is the entire opening line: "It was a dark and stormy night and the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

There is actually a contest for bad writing called the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.

This information was first passed along to me by a student, Ingrid, who worked in our office. She's a great writer and we had a good laugh about this a year or so ago.

Happy Haunting!

(I think it would be fun to write a good ghost story....maybe I'll post one here sometime...I bet you can guess what my opening line will be!)

Edith Wharton

In fall 2004, I took a Modern American Authors class at Missouri State University. We read eight novels that semester; five were written by Edith Wharton. When we were finished, the professor said something like, "It'll be a long time before I teach a class on Edith Wharton again." I believe most of us agreed. However, I feel that I learned a great deal about descriptive writing during that class.

Edith Wharton has the reputation of writing stories about the high society of which she was an integral part. That society can be found in her popular novels, The Age of Innocence, The House of Mirth, etc.

But I found her to be at her strongest when she stepped out of her comfort zone and wrote about the poor and desolate, particularly a handful of characters found in the staple Ethan Frome and my favorite Wharton novel, Summer.

In Summer, there is a scene when the main character Charity travels up "the Mountain" to see her mother, Mary. When she gets there, she learns that her mother is dead. Here is the scene:

"Mary's over there," someone said; and Mr. Miles, taking the bottle in his hand, passed behind the table. Charity followed him, and they stood before a mattress on the floor in a corner of the room. A woman lay on it, but she did not look like a dead woman; she seemed to have fallen across her squalid bed in a drunken sleep, and to have been left lying where she fell, in her ragged disordered clothes. One arm was flung above her head, one leg drawn up under a torn skirt that left the other bare to the knee: a swollen glistening leg with a ragged stocking rolled down about the ankle. The woman lay on her back, her eyes staring up unblinkingly at the candle that trembled in Mr. Miles's hand.

Later in the novel, Wharton describes a scene inside one of the cabins on the Mountain. This simple scene has stuck in my mind since I first read this novel:

CHARITY lay on the floor on a mattress, as her dead mother's body had lain. The room in which she lay was cold and dark and low-ceilinged, and even poorer and barer than the scene of Mary Hyatt's earthly pilgrimage. On the other side of the fireless stove Liff Hyatt's mother slept on a blanket, with two children--her grandchildren, she said--rolled up against her like sleeping puppies. They had their thin clothes spread over them, having given the only other blanket to their guest.

Can't you just imagine this scene? How powerful! "On the other side of the fireless stove Liff Hyatt's mother slept on a blanket, with two children -- her grandchildren, she said -- rolled up against her like sleeping puppies.

I truly enjoy great narrative, and this is some of the best that I've read. If you get a chance, pick up a copy of Summer. You won't regret it. Online text can be found here.

FYI...Wharton was good friends with Henry James, who I wrote about in an earlier post.

Maurice Medland

In the late 1990s, when I was preparing to graduate from Truman State University, I had the opportunity to meet Maurice Medland. At the time, Mr. Medland (a Truman alum) had recenlty published his first novel, Point of Honor, and he was signing copies at the university bookstore. We stood and talked for about twenty minutes. And during that brief time, he encouraged me to follow my dream to write. I purchased a copy of Point of Honor and Mr. Medland signed it for me. It was a very good read -- very suspenseful and extremely detailed. Mr. Medland was in the Navy, and his knowledge of ships is unparalleled.

For several years, I waited for a follow-up. That novel, China Star, is now available, and I look forward to reading it. I recently wrote to Mr. Medland and recounted the story of our brief meeting. Here is part of the response that I received:

I'm glad to hear that you're doing well--congrats to you on your marriage, your family, your career, and your studies. That's the very foundation we all need to pursue a writing career. When I was starting out, I corresponded with Dean Koontz a bit and he said, "It's a tough business, but stick with it; the rewards are great." He was right on both counts. I have to say that the fiction market is tougher than ever, but publication is still possible for those who learn the craft and have the talent to apply it. So stick with it, my friend. Don't let anyone or anything stop you.

This is the encouragement I needed, and I appreciate his counsel. I encourage you to pick up a copy of either book. I can definitely vouch for his debut, and I'm betting that the follow-up is just as fun.

Click here for the first two chapters of Point of Honor and the first chapter of China Star.

Enjoy -- and tell me what you think!

A chilling tale...

It's Halloween, and it's time to to be scared.

A few years back, I read (and subsequently wrote a paper about) Henry James' "The Turn of the Screw." The paper was crap, but the story was great -- scary!

The opening paragraph of this superb ghost story sets a frightening scene. I thought I would provide it here, along with a link to an online version of the tale in case anyone is interested.

From "The Turn of the Screw":

The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve in an old house, a strange tale should essentially be, I remember no comment uttered till somebody happened to say that it was the only case he had met in which such a visitation had fallen on a child. The case, I may mention, was that of an apparition in just such an old house as had gathered us for the occasion -- an appearance, of a dreadful kind, to a little boy sleeping in the room with his mother and waking her up in the terror of it; waking her not to dissipate his dread and soothe him to sleep again, but to encounter also, herself, before she had succeeded in doing so, the same sight that had shaken him. It was this observation that drew from Douglas -- not immediately, but later in the evening -- a reply that had the interesting consequence to which I call attention. Someone else told a story not particularly effective, which I saw he was not following. This I took for a sign that he had himself something to produce and that we should only have to wait. We waited in fact till two nights later, but that same evening, before we scattered, he brought out what was in his mind.

For more of the text, go to the page at the University of Virginia's LibraryElectronic Text Center.

"Turn of the Screw" does not offer a clear explanation as to exactly what is happening. The novella has been the subject of much debate since it was first published. Is it real? Is it psychological? Psychosexual?

Read it and let's discuss.

Aside from "Turn," it's been awhile since I've read a truly scary story. Do you have any recommendations?

A poem

Zero hour

The world progresses without me,
mocking grief.

Pledges made at zero hour
evaporate as buds of April
pop
in breeze, in sunshine
pushing through a veiled pane.

Pain, mine, frozen still
at zero hour
when pledges poured
from empathetic hearts
steeped in sadness brief.

Hearts are healed
by April bloom.

Not mine.

Not mine.

Fragile buds,
silky, susceptible to frost,
sing for renewal,
a soprano for spring.

I pray for silence.

I pray for healing.

I pray for freeze.


©Copyright 2007

_____________________________________________________________________
Author's note: I wrote this one night after a class with Dr. Jane Hoogestraat, English professor at Missouri State University. I forget the poetic term we were discussing, but it had something to do with the personification of nature. I'll have to look that up. Anyway, I wanted to focus on grief -- specifically, grief immediately following a death. When someone dies (that moment I refer to as "zero hour"), friends and family immediately jump to the aid of those left behind. Their message: "If you need ANYTHING, let me know, and I'll be there for you." I've said it to people. You probably have too. But what happens a month later? Usually, those people who've lost a loved one are still suffering, but all of the assistance and offers of help have faded and people have gone back to their lives. I think it's natural, but it's still painful for the ones who are grieving.

My novel

I've actually completed a fair amount of work with this project already. No, I haven't written a hundered pages. But I have a pretty nice outline, character biographies, plot points, etc. I've also written a rough first chapter.

I have an interesting organization. The story takes place over a period of two weeks. Each chapter is a day building up to the final day. I have some interesting characters. The protagonist, Thomas Richter (good German name) is a St. Louis newspaper reporter (write what you know, right?). He's facing a huge challenge that will alter his life forever, blah, blah, blah....Actually, it's a pretty good story. But, right now, the majority is only in my mind.

Time to get it on paper, right? So what am I doing taking up time writing here? Maybe it's the exercise of hitting the keyboard with a purpose -- sitting here, at night, when the kids are asleep and I could be vegging out watching a CSI rerun.

And what's up with that? The new season of CSI is less than a month old and they're already playing repeats? I don't watch too many television shows anymore, but I do flip channels like a mad man.

Should get to writing...

Creative Nonfiction

My master's thesis is (in plan and theory) a collection of short creative nonfiction pieces. I thought this project would be a natural extension of my journalism career. After all, in only five short years, I'd seen amazing things. I'd interviewed fascinating people. I'd had the chance to report on everything from murders and drug raids to county fairs, the Iraq War and local politics. And I'd experienced nearly every emotion. With that background and all of that flavor, it should be easy to write creatively about such things. Right?

Not so fast. I'm finding it to be a very tedious task. For months, I haven't been able to understand why my nonfiction work is sub-par. But I've had a recent revelation, and I'm going to share it here.

As a journalist, I was trained to collect the facts and report the story. At no point during the process was I allowed to interject my personal feelings or views into the story. Now, I have to write about me. How did I feel when I conducted the interview? What was I thinking when I interviewed that man convicted of killing a child? What a change! And what a challenge.

When writing fiction, authors can assume any identity. Yes, writers do interject themselves into their characters. But in the end, the character is a composite of many. With creative nonfiction, the main character is the author. And I guess I'm still uncomfortable with revealing my true self to the world (or, in this case, my professor).

And it's tough to share my true thoughts about people. For instance, when I analyze a family member in a piece, I mention everything I love about him. But I also announce to the readers my criticisms of him. But what if he reads this? Would he be offended? So I water it down -- just in case. It's kind of like opening your diary for the world to see. You reveal your vulnerabilities, your prejudices, even your language.

I'm just having a hard time doing that. I guess I'm too cautious. Anyone else have this problem?

RECOMMENDATION: A very good book of creative nonfiction is The Beholder's Eye: A Collection of America's Finest Personal Journalism, edited by Walt Harrington.

The Novel Approach -- why this blog exists

Has anyone ever told you, "You know? You should write a novel."

Or, have you said to yourself, "You know? I should write a novel."

Or, "That would make a great novel."

Or, "I've got a novel floating around in my head. I just have to write it down."

Or, "There's just no TIME!!!!"

It's maddening, isn't it? You know you can do it, but something always gets in the way.

Welcome to The Novel Approach.

The idea for this blog was sparked by a group of folks (several are friends or acquaintances of mine) who contribute to a blog devoted to running marathons. Members of this group post anything and everything about marathons: training techniques, news stories, personal essays, poems on marathon running, etc. But their most important contribution is encouragement.

They push each other to the proverbial finish line.

Well, writing a novel is like running a marathon. And writers need encouragement.

We also need tools, resources, prompts, and feedback.

That's the primary goal for The Novel Approach.

My name is Eric. I'm 30 years old. My wife, Corinn, tells me I should write a novel. I want to write a novel. I've got one floating around in my head. I just have to write it down. But with a full-time job, night school and two children, there's just no time.

If you're like me, it's time to make time. It's time to do it.