So I've been having trouble lately figuring out how to proceed with my latest greatest work, Queen Killer in the Pink Satin Sash. Frankly, I had no overall framework--where to begin, where to end, what to include in between to make it flow. I was determined to start in one particular place. I had once had a vision in my head of the style that I was trying to achieve. And, as it turns out, I was sticking to what I thought it was going to be when I stated out. As it turns out, I shouldn't have been so rigid.
So I was rereading my main resource for this project, a fabulous and enormously thick book called The Queen's Necklace by Frances Mossiker. It's a lot of first-hand accounts (memoirs and what have you) woven together with a little bit of editorial explanation here and there. I was absolutely fascinated by the characters--you would never believe it were true, except that it is entirely and utterly incontrovertible. I'd always been trying to find that thread that linked my story together, the driving plot arc I suppose.
And it came to me in a flash. I love when that happens, when hours of musing burst open and there's a lovely gem of an idea there waiting for you. My idea: a three-act play. Well, not so much a play of course, this being a novel. More, shall we say, a three-part story. It's the most basic idea of storytelling, any little kid knows it: beginning, middle end. Someone more sophisticated might call it plot introduction, climax, and denouement. It just occurred to me: in the beginning, Mme de La Motte becomes more and more desperate after losing her patroness; she hatches and implements her plot; the plot goes sour, she's caught, branded, escapes from prison, and flees to London. One, two, three.
As I discovered all this, I discovered something else very important. I realized that my vision of a book done almost completely in dialogue, almost like a script with set directions, simply wouldn't work. Although there was a specific line I desperately wanted to open with, I decided that this wouldn't work, but I opened with the same scene, leading up to that line.
I think that if you're writing anything, no matter how complex you think it is, has to really prescribe to the ancient formula in some way. There must be those dividing lines, those parts, that expected thread that leads through a story. Beginning. Middle. End. Think of the good books you've read, and you should be able to piece out the subtle borderlands between these parts. Sometimes they're almost imperceptible. Sometimes they're blatantly obvious. But a good story will always have it. Otherwise, the story just won't seem complete!
I learned another lesson, as well: just be flexible. If you set out determined what a story is going to be, then you are going to end up frustrated because you didn't let the story do what it needed to do. I've always been fascinated by Michelangelo's assertion that his greatest sculptures were there in the stone all along and that he just brought them out. The story will out. Let the characters do what they want to do, let the plot do what it has to do. I don't mean that you don't need to guide it, because obviously you do. Somebody's gotta say, "Uh, no, I can't do that, that would create a plot hole." But trust that the story has to come naturally or it won't seem natural to the reader.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
For Your Consumption
This note is optional, FYI.
A little bit more of Queen Killer in the Pink Satin Sash. You know, the title is a little weird but it does have a ring to it, doesn't it?
I wrote the first part of this two ngihts ago and edited it yesterday (I always reread what I wrote the previous night before moving on). I wrote half of the second bit last night, the other half today. I went back over it today. So obviously, this hasn't been greatly refined, but honestly, it probably won't change much. I don't do a lot of revising.
Monsieur de La Motte arrived on a crisp day at the beginning of November. The carriage he had rented was shabby, with peeling paint and a scruffy driver who acted as though he was drunk even though Madame de La Motte suspected that he was actually quite sober. She heard the sound of the carriage coming up the drive and told Rosalie to look out the window and see what impudent rascal was arriving uninvited right at supper time.
“I may be wrong,” Rosalie answered, “but I think it’s your husband.”
“Of all the impudent rascals in the world, I didn’t expect it to be him,” Madame answered with a frown. “Jealous fool.”
Rosalie merely set down her sewing and hurried out of Madame de La Motte’s bedroom, through the sitting room, out to the hall, and down the stairs, her footsteps quick but quiet with the practiced gait of a lifelong maid. Madame de La Motte sighed over her tea. She had learned the same unobtrusive way of hurrying when she was a servant.
She decided that she did not want to go to him, so she sat and waited with her tea at her side, looking across the room at Rosalie’s sewing where it was draped across the chair. Rosalie’s stitching was superb, better than Madame had achieved after working for two years for milliners and seamstresses.
Rosalie pushed open the door to the sitting room, remarking quietly to someone over her shoulder that Madame de La Motte was in the other room. She pushed the door open gently and pushed her head in. Madame de La Motte looked up and could see her husband in the other room, standing ramrod straight and tapping his thigh with one forefinger. A curl of Rosalie’s hair came loose from her mobcap.
“He’s here, Madame,” she said.
“I can’t imagine why,” Madame de La Motte said pointedly. “Can you think of why he might be here, Rosalie?”
“I wouldn’t presume to guess, Madame,” Rosalie said, but the flush to her cheeks was enough to tell Madame de La Motte who had sent a letter to Monsieur de La Motte telling him to come to the Marquise’s home in Paris. Madame de La Motte had certainly implied to the Marquise that she would invited her husband to join her in Paris, but she had never actually had any intention of calling him back from his army garrison in Lunéville. She preferred him to be in Lunéville for many reasons, not least of which was his distance from herself.
She got up from her seat as Rosalie opened the door and stood aside.
Monsieur de La Motte was well-built and had a powerful, brisk air that made it seem as though he was about to perform a dazzling physical feat at any moment. His uniform was a little worn and crumpled, his boots a little dirty. He had not worn a wig or powdered his hair, completing the heroic picture. Madame de La Motte stiffened slightly as he gave a perfunctory bow.
“Jeanne,” he said.
His eyes glided back towards Rosalie, who was quick to leave the room and close the door behind with an inconspicuous snap. Monsieur de La Motte smiled genially and clasped his hands behind his back.
“So, here we are, thrown upon the mercy of an old woman.”
“I suppose so,” Madame de La Motte said. “Did you have a good journey?”
“It was fair,” he said indifferently. “The carriage smelled like piss, but what could I do with only a few francs to my name? I got an urgent letter from my wife telling me to resign my post in Lunéville and come to Paris at once to join her at her benefactress’s home. Yet I was in Lunéville, practically penniless.”
Madame de La Motte shrugged her shoulders. She never knew what to say to her husband anymore. Everything that came to mind seemed rude or vindictive. She suspected that Rosalie had had a reconciliation in mind when she came up with this charade. But Rosalie simply did not understand; reconciliation was not possible. Bare civility was a stretch.
“You’ll be glad to know that the Marquise is doing much better.”
“Why would I be glad to know that?” Monsieur de La Motte demanded. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Have I ever shown any signs of caring about her?”
“No, you’ve never shown any signs of caring about anything at all.”
“I care very much about certain things.”
“Money.”
“For starters,” he agreed.
“Well, I hope that you have money one day, then,” she said, “because if that is all you need to be happy, then you can take your money and leave.”
“I hope that we aren’t expected to sleep in the same room.”
“I wouldn’t allow that, monsieur.”
“Nor would I.”
“We’re agreed on something, then.”
“Just the one thing,” Madame agreed.
“I suppose that I will see you at supper.”
“I suppose that you will, if you aren’t too busy flirting with other women. I won’t hold my breath, monsieur.”
“I won’t expect to meet your eyes, then, because I know you will have some lover on the side who will have all of your attention. What is this I’ve heard about a Monsieur Beugnot?”
“I don’t know, you tell me what you’ve heard. It should be entertaining, much more lurid than reality, I’m sure. The only Beugnot I am aware of knowing is a venerable old magistrate from Bar-Sur-Aube, our hometown. You must remember him. He took a liking to me and loaned me money. You surely remember all of that?”
“What about his son?”
“What about his son?”
“Rumor has is—“
“I have no intention of hearing you repeat rumors to me,” she said. “I’m sure you have better things to do than blather at me, monsieur. Please go.”
His face darkened in anger, but he turned on his heel, wrenched open the door, and left, striding through the bedroom door and then through the sitting room door without closing either behind him. Rosalie was startled from her seat as Monsieur de La Motte clattered down the stairs and could be heard yelling at the filthy man who had driven him to Paris. Rosalie got up tentatively and came to the door.
“If I ever need someone to meddle in my affairs, Rosalie, I will be sure to remember not to ask you, because you’re a miserable failure at it. If you’re going to try to fix things, go about it properly and find out what’s broken first.”
Rosalie’s eyes were huge.
“What’s broken, madame?”
“Many things,” Madame de La Motte muttered. “I don’t really care to talk about it right now. I’m not going down to supper. I have a headache. Relay my apologies to the Marquise and all her guests.”
Rosalie nodded.
“Yes, Madame.”
Madame and Monsieur de La Motte avoided each other as best as they could. When they passed each other they pretended the other was a ghost and when they were seated next to each other at the supper table, they treated each other as distant acquaintances, never meeting eyes and speaking only to the person on their other side. Very few people noticed, and if they did, they decided it was tactless to mention the La Mottes’ problems. The Marquise was becoming more and more ill and hardly noticed anything at all.
The Marquis returned a week after Monsieur de La Motte arrived, and Madame de La Motte heard his dreaded voice, sometimes in the hall and sometimes outside as he enjoyed his wife’s formal English gardens as he cahtted chatted with Monsieur de La Motte or his male friends. The sound of his voice made Madame shiver slightly with memories that were not so far bygone that she could easily forget them. They were still vivid in her mind.
Madame de La Motte had managed to avoid the Marquise thoroughly until the day that Mademoiselle de Passy arrived after receiving a forlorn letter from her father telling her of her mother’s grave illness. When the young lady climbed down from her elegant chaise, she was wearing a trim blue riding gown with a matching, plumed hat. Her hair was not quite as high as court regalia would require, but it was high enough that she had to duck her head as stepped out and onto the cobbles before her parents’ old home.
“Mademoiselle!” cried Madame de La Motte as she rushed from the front of the house, ignoring the servants who gaped.
“Jeanne, mon cherie!” cried Mademoiselle de Passy. She looked just as she always had, delicately pretty with gorgeous large eyes. She clasped Madame de La Motte’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “How good to see you! I didn’t know that you had come here. Papa said nothing of it in his letter.”
“I’ve seen very little of your father over the past few weeks. I imagine that he doesn’t even know I’m here. How is everyone at court?”
“Oh, obsessive,” said Mademoiselle lightly. “Can you imagine the way that puce took the entire court by storm? One day, no one had heard of it, the next day it’s the only color that any lady would be caught dead wearing!”
“How are the king and the queen?”
“Oh, very well, I suppose. I don’t see much of the king. He’s a wonderful fellow, but a little bit dull if truth be told. I think I expected him to be different from everyone else, but he really isn’t, he’s just like any other near-sighted dullard.”
“How terribly rude of you!” Madame de La Motte laughed, leading the way into the house. “What about the queen?”
“She’s simply as sweet as a woman can be, but very selfish,” Mademoiselle de Passy reported. “But you can’t repeat what I’ve said about the king and queen! I only say it because I know you are very discreet.”
“Of course.”
“But how is Maman?”
“She’s doing rather poorly. And what about Doctor Franklin?’
“I should think he’s doing very well; anything American is fiendishly fashionable. How long has Maman been abed?”
They stepped inside the house.
“A few weeks now. Have you heard anything about my suit? Any whispers of my name about court? I certainly hope that my efforts haven’t been fruitless.”
“I haven’t heard even a whisper of your name. You know that access to the queen is very tightly restricted by the Polignac set.”
“But there are other people at court.”
“It’s the queen who holds the key to royal favor, you know.”
“No one has said my name, though?”
Mademoiselle de Passy shook her head sadly as she handed a light cloak and her parasol to a maid, who scurried away. Mademoiselle was moving towards the stairs when she stopped and her face brightened with a smile.
“Papa!”
Madame de La Motte started and backed away as Mademoiselle hurried into her father’s arms. The wall didn’t seem to be far enough away from him as Madame de La Motte pressed her back against it. She wished she could get further away. Then he saw her as her let go of his daughter. He showed no guilt in his face at all.
“Bonjour, Jeanne. I haven’t seen your lovely face in this house for years. What a pleasure.”
“Your wife is very gracious to me,” Jeanne said. “And you, monsieur, I have to thank you for allowing her to be so gracious.”
“Anything for my wife,” he said earnestly. “Poor woman. I’m afraid she isn’t doing very well at all.”
He turned to his daughter.
“The doctors aren’t hopeful.”
Father and daughter ascended the stairs, leaving Madame de La Motte feeling as though she’d been pricked all over by pins.
A little bit more of Queen Killer in the Pink Satin Sash. You know, the title is a little weird but it does have a ring to it, doesn't it?
I wrote the first part of this two ngihts ago and edited it yesterday (I always reread what I wrote the previous night before moving on). I wrote half of the second bit last night, the other half today. I went back over it today. So obviously, this hasn't been greatly refined, but honestly, it probably won't change much. I don't do a lot of revising.
Monsieur de La Motte arrived on a crisp day at the beginning of November. The carriage he had rented was shabby, with peeling paint and a scruffy driver who acted as though he was drunk even though Madame de La Motte suspected that he was actually quite sober. She heard the sound of the carriage coming up the drive and told Rosalie to look out the window and see what impudent rascal was arriving uninvited right at supper time.
“I may be wrong,” Rosalie answered, “but I think it’s your husband.”
“Of all the impudent rascals in the world, I didn’t expect it to be him,” Madame answered with a frown. “Jealous fool.”
Rosalie merely set down her sewing and hurried out of Madame de La Motte’s bedroom, through the sitting room, out to the hall, and down the stairs, her footsteps quick but quiet with the practiced gait of a lifelong maid. Madame de La Motte sighed over her tea. She had learned the same unobtrusive way of hurrying when she was a servant.
She decided that she did not want to go to him, so she sat and waited with her tea at her side, looking across the room at Rosalie’s sewing where it was draped across the chair. Rosalie’s stitching was superb, better than Madame had achieved after working for two years for milliners and seamstresses.
Rosalie pushed open the door to the sitting room, remarking quietly to someone over her shoulder that Madame de La Motte was in the other room. She pushed the door open gently and pushed her head in. Madame de La Motte looked up and could see her husband in the other room, standing ramrod straight and tapping his thigh with one forefinger. A curl of Rosalie’s hair came loose from her mobcap.
“He’s here, Madame,” she said.
“I can’t imagine why,” Madame de La Motte said pointedly. “Can you think of why he might be here, Rosalie?”
“I wouldn’t presume to guess, Madame,” Rosalie said, but the flush to her cheeks was enough to tell Madame de La Motte who had sent a letter to Monsieur de La Motte telling him to come to the Marquise’s home in Paris. Madame de La Motte had certainly implied to the Marquise that she would invited her husband to join her in Paris, but she had never actually had any intention of calling him back from his army garrison in Lunéville. She preferred him to be in Lunéville for many reasons, not least of which was his distance from herself.
She got up from her seat as Rosalie opened the door and stood aside.
Monsieur de La Motte was well-built and had a powerful, brisk air that made it seem as though he was about to perform a dazzling physical feat at any moment. His uniform was a little worn and crumpled, his boots a little dirty. He had not worn a wig or powdered his hair, completing the heroic picture. Madame de La Motte stiffened slightly as he gave a perfunctory bow.
“Jeanne,” he said.
His eyes glided back towards Rosalie, who was quick to leave the room and close the door behind with an inconspicuous snap. Monsieur de La Motte smiled genially and clasped his hands behind his back.
“So, here we are, thrown upon the mercy of an old woman.”
“I suppose so,” Madame de La Motte said. “Did you have a good journey?”
“It was fair,” he said indifferently. “The carriage smelled like piss, but what could I do with only a few francs to my name? I got an urgent letter from my wife telling me to resign my post in Lunéville and come to Paris at once to join her at her benefactress’s home. Yet I was in Lunéville, practically penniless.”
Madame de La Motte shrugged her shoulders. She never knew what to say to her husband anymore. Everything that came to mind seemed rude or vindictive. She suspected that Rosalie had had a reconciliation in mind when she came up with this charade. But Rosalie simply did not understand; reconciliation was not possible. Bare civility was a stretch.
“You’ll be glad to know that the Marquise is doing much better.”
“Why would I be glad to know that?” Monsieur de La Motte demanded. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Have I ever shown any signs of caring about her?”
“No, you’ve never shown any signs of caring about anything at all.”
“I care very much about certain things.”
“Money.”
“For starters,” he agreed.
“Well, I hope that you have money one day, then,” she said, “because if that is all you need to be happy, then you can take your money and leave.”
“I hope that we aren’t expected to sleep in the same room.”
“I wouldn’t allow that, monsieur.”
“Nor would I.”
“We’re agreed on something, then.”
“Just the one thing,” Madame agreed.
“I suppose that I will see you at supper.”
“I suppose that you will, if you aren’t too busy flirting with other women. I won’t hold my breath, monsieur.”
“I won’t expect to meet your eyes, then, because I know you will have some lover on the side who will have all of your attention. What is this I’ve heard about a Monsieur Beugnot?”
“I don’t know, you tell me what you’ve heard. It should be entertaining, much more lurid than reality, I’m sure. The only Beugnot I am aware of knowing is a venerable old magistrate from Bar-Sur-Aube, our hometown. You must remember him. He took a liking to me and loaned me money. You surely remember all of that?”
“What about his son?”
“What about his son?”
“Rumor has is—“
“I have no intention of hearing you repeat rumors to me,” she said. “I’m sure you have better things to do than blather at me, monsieur. Please go.”
His face darkened in anger, but he turned on his heel, wrenched open the door, and left, striding through the bedroom door and then through the sitting room door without closing either behind him. Rosalie was startled from her seat as Monsieur de La Motte clattered down the stairs and could be heard yelling at the filthy man who had driven him to Paris. Rosalie got up tentatively and came to the door.
“If I ever need someone to meddle in my affairs, Rosalie, I will be sure to remember not to ask you, because you’re a miserable failure at it. If you’re going to try to fix things, go about it properly and find out what’s broken first.”
Rosalie’s eyes were huge.
“What’s broken, madame?”
“Many things,” Madame de La Motte muttered. “I don’t really care to talk about it right now. I’m not going down to supper. I have a headache. Relay my apologies to the Marquise and all her guests.”
Rosalie nodded.
“Yes, Madame.”
Madame and Monsieur de La Motte avoided each other as best as they could. When they passed each other they pretended the other was a ghost and when they were seated next to each other at the supper table, they treated each other as distant acquaintances, never meeting eyes and speaking only to the person on their other side. Very few people noticed, and if they did, they decided it was tactless to mention the La Mottes’ problems. The Marquise was becoming more and more ill and hardly noticed anything at all.
The Marquis returned a week after Monsieur de La Motte arrived, and Madame de La Motte heard his dreaded voice, sometimes in the hall and sometimes outside as he enjoyed his wife’s formal English gardens as he cahtted chatted with Monsieur de La Motte or his male friends. The sound of his voice made Madame shiver slightly with memories that were not so far bygone that she could easily forget them. They were still vivid in her mind.
Madame de La Motte had managed to avoid the Marquise thoroughly until the day that Mademoiselle de Passy arrived after receiving a forlorn letter from her father telling her of her mother’s grave illness. When the young lady climbed down from her elegant chaise, she was wearing a trim blue riding gown with a matching, plumed hat. Her hair was not quite as high as court regalia would require, but it was high enough that she had to duck her head as stepped out and onto the cobbles before her parents’ old home.
“Mademoiselle!” cried Madame de La Motte as she rushed from the front of the house, ignoring the servants who gaped.
“Jeanne, mon cherie!” cried Mademoiselle de Passy. She looked just as she always had, delicately pretty with gorgeous large eyes. She clasped Madame de La Motte’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “How good to see you! I didn’t know that you had come here. Papa said nothing of it in his letter.”
“I’ve seen very little of your father over the past few weeks. I imagine that he doesn’t even know I’m here. How is everyone at court?”
“Oh, obsessive,” said Mademoiselle lightly. “Can you imagine the way that puce took the entire court by storm? One day, no one had heard of it, the next day it’s the only color that any lady would be caught dead wearing!”
“How are the king and the queen?”
“Oh, very well, I suppose. I don’t see much of the king. He’s a wonderful fellow, but a little bit dull if truth be told. I think I expected him to be different from everyone else, but he really isn’t, he’s just like any other near-sighted dullard.”
“How terribly rude of you!” Madame de La Motte laughed, leading the way into the house. “What about the queen?”
“She’s simply as sweet as a woman can be, but very selfish,” Mademoiselle de Passy reported. “But you can’t repeat what I’ve said about the king and queen! I only say it because I know you are very discreet.”
“Of course.”
“But how is Maman?”
“She’s doing rather poorly. And what about Doctor Franklin?’
“I should think he’s doing very well; anything American is fiendishly fashionable. How long has Maman been abed?”
They stepped inside the house.
“A few weeks now. Have you heard anything about my suit? Any whispers of my name about court? I certainly hope that my efforts haven’t been fruitless.”
“I haven’t heard even a whisper of your name. You know that access to the queen is very tightly restricted by the Polignac set.”
“But there are other people at court.”
“It’s the queen who holds the key to royal favor, you know.”
“No one has said my name, though?”
Mademoiselle de Passy shook her head sadly as she handed a light cloak and her parasol to a maid, who scurried away. Mademoiselle was moving towards the stairs when she stopped and her face brightened with a smile.
“Papa!”
Madame de La Motte started and backed away as Mademoiselle hurried into her father’s arms. The wall didn’t seem to be far enough away from him as Madame de La Motte pressed her back against it. She wished she could get further away. Then he saw her as her let go of his daughter. He showed no guilt in his face at all.
“Bonjour, Jeanne. I haven’t seen your lovely face in this house for years. What a pleasure.”
“Your wife is very gracious to me,” Jeanne said. “And you, monsieur, I have to thank you for allowing her to be so gracious.”
“Anything for my wife,” he said earnestly. “Poor woman. I’m afraid she isn’t doing very well at all.”
He turned to his daughter.
“The doctors aren’t hopeful.”
Father and daughter ascended the stairs, leaving Madame de La Motte feeling as though she’d been pricked all over by pins.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Madame de La Motte and her husband
Alright, I think this prety much stands by itself, but I should note that it's a little excerpt from what I'm working on at the moment, a historical fiction set right before the French Revolution. If you want to know anything more, google Comtesse de La Motte, or find it on Wikipedia, ther history is all there.
As for my own feelings about this bit: I think it needs work. I really feel like I'm spending entirely too much time on this part of the story. I might skip this entire part and just move from the section before to the Marquise's death. But anyway, enjoy!
Madame de La Motte settled in particularly well to the Marquise’s fine Paris home. It was furnished in pieces by Reisner, had an amazing Englsih flushing toilet, and ten ornate boiseries, yet it still bore the slightest stench of the disaster that the Marquise still chose not to speak about. If it was brought up in her presence, she pretended deafness or stupidity, and did a fair job at achieving both. Madame de La Motte had been rebuffed enough times to know not to say anything about the smell to her patroness. Instead she caught Rosalie’s eyes and made a face at the smell.
“The Marquis had a distillery in the basement,” Madame de La Motte explained the night of their arrival as she was being helped out of her gown. “It burst and the entire building stunk. It didn’t take long for the entire illegal operation to be discovered. The damned old Marquis was exiled, and his poor wife was forced to go with him to Montenegro! Poor woman.”
“Indeed,” Rosalie said.
Madame de La Motte was as pleased a cat curled in its favorite spot in the sun. It seemed effortless and natural for her to slip into the ways of the rich Marquise, no matter the Marquise’s actual financial state. Madame had had enough experience of penury to know that money was not actually required to buy whatever one wanted to buy. Half of her possessions had been bought on credit. She had borrowed money from people who liked her, were fond of her, trusted that she would someday pay the money back. And someday, when her claims were vindicated, she would certainly pay them back, with interest if she could.
Madame particularly liked having more servants around, though it gave poor Rosalie fits; Rosalie kept insisting that the Marquise’s servants were inept and that it would be better if she just did everything herself. But Madame insisted; it wouldn’t do for a lady’s maid to go around doing all the work when there were stunted little handmaids to do that sort of thing. More than once Madame de La Motte walked through the house to find Rosalie tugging a load of laundry up the stairs or beating out a carpet in the kitchen garden. She had to scold poor Rosalie, who came close to tears. She was very sensitive.
It was only a week after Madame de La Motte arrived that a carriage pulled into the drive, the horses old and weary, the carriage shabby and faded. The driver was muttering to himself as he drove; he had wild eyes.
When the carriage stopped, Madame de La Motte was in the gardens in the back of the house, walking in circles around the fancy English-style shrubbery with the Marquise. The Marquise was commenting on the color of the bushes. Although her memory was slipping in certain other areas—most particularly in the area of family scandals—she was remarkably keen when it came to the plants.
“That one really needs more fertilizer,” she said anxiously, pointing at a bush that was slightly transparent in the light of a clear September day.
Madame knew what her reply would have been in other company. She would have certainly suggested to anyone else that they squat down and fertilize the plant themselves. But this seemed a little bit crude in the old lady’s pristine garden. So Madame kept her mouth shut.
“I haven’t heard much from my daughter lately,” the Marquise said. “I wonder what she is doing there at court? It seems oddly out of character for her not to keep me informed.”
“I’m sure she’s simply enjoying herself so much that she doesn’t have the time to write,” Madame de La Motte assured her. It wasn’t true. Mademoiselle de Passy had managed to have a few more nasty rumors attached to her name. There were rumors floating around that she was a favorite of the famous, fashionable old Dr. Franklin. If she wasn’t careful, she might have as many rumors following her as Madame de La Motte did, pursuing her like bloodhounds wherever she went.
One of the Marquise’s trusted old servants came hurrying into the garden, her face a little red.
“Madame, the Comte de La Motte is here,” she said.
“So he’s taken to calling himself Comte?” the Marquise muttered.
Madame de La Motte pretended not to hear. She thanked the servant and walked with the Marquise into the house and through the hall to the foyer. In the foyer, with servants bustling around him, was her husband. He was a particularly fine specimen, especially in his army uniform, which he wore on account of having nothing else suitable to wear. Madame de La Motte forgot the old woman and rushed to him, throwing her arms around him.
“Monsieur, comment allez vois?” she cried.
“Je vais bien, madame,” he said cheerfully as he patted her gently on the back and then drew away. He turned to the Marquise and bowed. It was not a particularly elegant bow, but it was sufficient to bring a smile to the Marquise’s face.
“Well, boy, come closer and kiss my hand at least.”
He did as he was told, bowing over her proffered hand.
“I have to thank you, Madame, for your graciousness in allowing us to live under your roof.”
“Well,” she said, clearly flattered, “it was just so empty.”
“And the Marquis?” he asked. His tone managed to include Madame de La Motte in the inquiry. It was, after all, Madame de La Motte whom the Marquis had a grudge against.
“The Marquis is gone for the week, out to Versailles on court business.”
Monsieur de La Motte sighed in relief as he was tapped on the shoulder by the driver. The driver had stopped muttering to himself long enough to stand very close to Monsieur and hold out his grubby hand that smelled very strongly of horse’s slobber.
“Oh, yes,” said Monsieur. He turned to his wife. “Madame?”
Madame de La Motte did not miss a beat. She dug into her pocket, filled with a few coins that morning, and handed over the proper number of coins. The driver turned around and disappeared as the last few items of luggage were carried into the house and up the stairs to Monsieur’s rooms.
“Monsieur,” said Madame de La Motte, “we have a lot of catching up to do. You have to tell me how things are in Bar-sur-Aube.”
“And you,” he said, “will have to tell me how you manage to get by.”
His eyes were clever, but she knew he wasn’t as clever as he thought he was.
“Oh,” she said, “I can tell you that. I have been given little loans here and there from faithful friends. And of course Madame la Marquise has been far more gracious than reason should allow.”
Monsieur nodded knowingly.
“Reason is a slave to devotion when you’re in the room, Madame.”
They moved away from the Marquise, away from the bustling servants, his hand on her elbow. He could not link arms because of her wide blue satin gown, puffed out in the skirts with a layer of fine petticoats; the gown was a gift from the Marquise.
“How are your army compatriots? Are they enjoying the pleasures of Luneville?”
“They’re enjoying themselves, I’m sure,” he said. “Of course, I’m no longer one of them. I resigned, just like you recommended.”
Madame de La Motte opened her mouth to argue, but then she remembered her maid’s habit of interfering in things that were none of her business to interfere in. Rosalie must have sent him a letter telling him to resign now that the Marquise had offered her protection. Rosalie probably thought it was for the best, that somehow it might mend the relations between the couple.
“The Marquise is getting worse,” Madame de La Motte whispered as they began towards the stairs,
“That’s a pity,” he said. “The Marquis doesn’t like you; he won’t let you stay if the old woman dies.”
“I like that old woman,” she said.
“I know,” he answered. “She’s very kind, isn’t she? A little bit foolish. Like that old Beugnot man who you keep getting loans from.”
She shifted uncomfortably. Surely he knew that the old man’s generosity stemmed from his exuberant relief that Madame de La Motte had been married off to someone other than his son.
“We’ll make the best of it,” Madame de La Motte said.
“Yes,” her husband said. “You’re very good at that, at least, even if you’re a miserable failure at most other things.”
“Pardon me?” she said incredulously.
“You’ve been making useless little trips to court, to Paris, even to Strasbourg. They gain nothing but more debt.”
“I went to Strasbourg with the Marquise; she paid for the entire thing.”
“You should have been making inroads at court.”
“I wanted to go.”
“To Strasbourg?”
“The famous mystic, Count Cagliostro, was there. The Marquise consulted him about her health.”
Monsieur de La Motte grunted in exasperation.
Suddenly, from down the hall, Rosalie appeared, giving quiet instructions to one of the Marquise’s little maids. The girl stopped when Rosalie did, and they both curtsied to Monsieur and Madame de La Motte.
“Monsieur,” said Rosalie, “these are your rooms.”
Monsieur dropped Madame de La Motte’s arm and without another word disappeared into his own rooms.
As for my own feelings about this bit: I think it needs work. I really feel like I'm spending entirely too much time on this part of the story. I might skip this entire part and just move from the section before to the Marquise's death. But anyway, enjoy!
Madame de La Motte settled in particularly well to the Marquise’s fine Paris home. It was furnished in pieces by Reisner, had an amazing Englsih flushing toilet, and ten ornate boiseries, yet it still bore the slightest stench of the disaster that the Marquise still chose not to speak about. If it was brought up in her presence, she pretended deafness or stupidity, and did a fair job at achieving both. Madame de La Motte had been rebuffed enough times to know not to say anything about the smell to her patroness. Instead she caught Rosalie’s eyes and made a face at the smell.
“The Marquis had a distillery in the basement,” Madame de La Motte explained the night of their arrival as she was being helped out of her gown. “It burst and the entire building stunk. It didn’t take long for the entire illegal operation to be discovered. The damned old Marquis was exiled, and his poor wife was forced to go with him to Montenegro! Poor woman.”
“Indeed,” Rosalie said.
Madame de La Motte was as pleased a cat curled in its favorite spot in the sun. It seemed effortless and natural for her to slip into the ways of the rich Marquise, no matter the Marquise’s actual financial state. Madame had had enough experience of penury to know that money was not actually required to buy whatever one wanted to buy. Half of her possessions had been bought on credit. She had borrowed money from people who liked her, were fond of her, trusted that she would someday pay the money back. And someday, when her claims were vindicated, she would certainly pay them back, with interest if she could.
Madame particularly liked having more servants around, though it gave poor Rosalie fits; Rosalie kept insisting that the Marquise’s servants were inept and that it would be better if she just did everything herself. But Madame insisted; it wouldn’t do for a lady’s maid to go around doing all the work when there were stunted little handmaids to do that sort of thing. More than once Madame de La Motte walked through the house to find Rosalie tugging a load of laundry up the stairs or beating out a carpet in the kitchen garden. She had to scold poor Rosalie, who came close to tears. She was very sensitive.
It was only a week after Madame de La Motte arrived that a carriage pulled into the drive, the horses old and weary, the carriage shabby and faded. The driver was muttering to himself as he drove; he had wild eyes.
When the carriage stopped, Madame de La Motte was in the gardens in the back of the house, walking in circles around the fancy English-style shrubbery with the Marquise. The Marquise was commenting on the color of the bushes. Although her memory was slipping in certain other areas—most particularly in the area of family scandals—she was remarkably keen when it came to the plants.
“That one really needs more fertilizer,” she said anxiously, pointing at a bush that was slightly transparent in the light of a clear September day.
Madame knew what her reply would have been in other company. She would have certainly suggested to anyone else that they squat down and fertilize the plant themselves. But this seemed a little bit crude in the old lady’s pristine garden. So Madame kept her mouth shut.
“I haven’t heard much from my daughter lately,” the Marquise said. “I wonder what she is doing there at court? It seems oddly out of character for her not to keep me informed.”
“I’m sure she’s simply enjoying herself so much that she doesn’t have the time to write,” Madame de La Motte assured her. It wasn’t true. Mademoiselle de Passy had managed to have a few more nasty rumors attached to her name. There were rumors floating around that she was a favorite of the famous, fashionable old Dr. Franklin. If she wasn’t careful, she might have as many rumors following her as Madame de La Motte did, pursuing her like bloodhounds wherever she went.
One of the Marquise’s trusted old servants came hurrying into the garden, her face a little red.
“Madame, the Comte de La Motte is here,” she said.
“So he’s taken to calling himself Comte?” the Marquise muttered.
Madame de La Motte pretended not to hear. She thanked the servant and walked with the Marquise into the house and through the hall to the foyer. In the foyer, with servants bustling around him, was her husband. He was a particularly fine specimen, especially in his army uniform, which he wore on account of having nothing else suitable to wear. Madame de La Motte forgot the old woman and rushed to him, throwing her arms around him.
“Monsieur, comment allez vois?” she cried.
“Je vais bien, madame,” he said cheerfully as he patted her gently on the back and then drew away. He turned to the Marquise and bowed. It was not a particularly elegant bow, but it was sufficient to bring a smile to the Marquise’s face.
“Well, boy, come closer and kiss my hand at least.”
He did as he was told, bowing over her proffered hand.
“I have to thank you, Madame, for your graciousness in allowing us to live under your roof.”
“Well,” she said, clearly flattered, “it was just so empty.”
“And the Marquis?” he asked. His tone managed to include Madame de La Motte in the inquiry. It was, after all, Madame de La Motte whom the Marquis had a grudge against.
“The Marquis is gone for the week, out to Versailles on court business.”
Monsieur de La Motte sighed in relief as he was tapped on the shoulder by the driver. The driver had stopped muttering to himself long enough to stand very close to Monsieur and hold out his grubby hand that smelled very strongly of horse’s slobber.
“Oh, yes,” said Monsieur. He turned to his wife. “Madame?”
Madame de La Motte did not miss a beat. She dug into her pocket, filled with a few coins that morning, and handed over the proper number of coins. The driver turned around and disappeared as the last few items of luggage were carried into the house and up the stairs to Monsieur’s rooms.
“Monsieur,” said Madame de La Motte, “we have a lot of catching up to do. You have to tell me how things are in Bar-sur-Aube.”
“And you,” he said, “will have to tell me how you manage to get by.”
His eyes were clever, but she knew he wasn’t as clever as he thought he was.
“Oh,” she said, “I can tell you that. I have been given little loans here and there from faithful friends. And of course Madame la Marquise has been far more gracious than reason should allow.”
Monsieur nodded knowingly.
“Reason is a slave to devotion when you’re in the room, Madame.”
They moved away from the Marquise, away from the bustling servants, his hand on her elbow. He could not link arms because of her wide blue satin gown, puffed out in the skirts with a layer of fine petticoats; the gown was a gift from the Marquise.
“How are your army compatriots? Are they enjoying the pleasures of Luneville?”
“They’re enjoying themselves, I’m sure,” he said. “Of course, I’m no longer one of them. I resigned, just like you recommended.”
Madame de La Motte opened her mouth to argue, but then she remembered her maid’s habit of interfering in things that were none of her business to interfere in. Rosalie must have sent him a letter telling him to resign now that the Marquise had offered her protection. Rosalie probably thought it was for the best, that somehow it might mend the relations between the couple.
“The Marquise is getting worse,” Madame de La Motte whispered as they began towards the stairs,
“That’s a pity,” he said. “The Marquis doesn’t like you; he won’t let you stay if the old woman dies.”
“I like that old woman,” she said.
“I know,” he answered. “She’s very kind, isn’t she? A little bit foolish. Like that old Beugnot man who you keep getting loans from.”
She shifted uncomfortably. Surely he knew that the old man’s generosity stemmed from his exuberant relief that Madame de La Motte had been married off to someone other than his son.
“We’ll make the best of it,” Madame de La Motte said.
“Yes,” her husband said. “You’re very good at that, at least, even if you’re a miserable failure at most other things.”
“Pardon me?” she said incredulously.
“You’ve been making useless little trips to court, to Paris, even to Strasbourg. They gain nothing but more debt.”
“I went to Strasbourg with the Marquise; she paid for the entire thing.”
“You should have been making inroads at court.”
“I wanted to go.”
“To Strasbourg?”
“The famous mystic, Count Cagliostro, was there. The Marquise consulted him about her health.”
Monsieur de La Motte grunted in exasperation.
Suddenly, from down the hall, Rosalie appeared, giving quiet instructions to one of the Marquise’s little maids. The girl stopped when Rosalie did, and they both curtsied to Monsieur and Madame de La Motte.
“Monsieur,” said Rosalie, “these are your rooms.”
Monsieur dropped Madame de La Motte’s arm and without another word disappeared into his own rooms.
Monday, July 2, 2007
The Thrill of Rejection, the Agony of Hope
That there was my take on "The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat."
I only bring it up because I got an e-mail yesterday from my literary agent, and the news was mixed. As of the last report, four or five of the ten publishing houses that had received Britannia has rejected it. That left five or six. The e-mail update I got yesterday informed me that only three publishing houses were still considering it. When I saw the e-mail, my heart jumped into my throat in a thrill of panic (see, I used "thrill" as a noun, meaning an intense reaction). And now I have to wait and wait and have this nagging hope in the back of my head, always trying to force its way forward into my consciousness. I don't want to think about it, though, because that would mean that I care; and if I care, then I will be sorely disappointed when I am rejected by the last three. And make no mistake about it: I'm cynical, and I know deep down in my heart that I'm going to be rejected by every publishing house. It isn't that I don't have faith in Britannia so much as I don't have faith in other people.
But let's steer this blog into a more pedantic stream, shall we? After all, this is meant to be a help and resource for creative writers, not necessarily my place to rant.
What do you do when you get negative feedback?
It sings. I know it, I've been rejected plenty of times before (and not just when it comes to creative writing, believe you me!). Your reading your piece and thinking, "I wouldn't change a single word! I love this part especially!" But you get a note from a friend who you asked to look over it, and they tore that part of your work to shreds. You're livid, you know they're an idiot and that they don't know what they're talking about. They were just trying to make your writing like their writing, or like their favorite author's writing, or they just don't understand how to write creatively. They just don't get it. They're not used to your genre. They're not used to your style. They don't know what the heck they're talking about.
As horrible as it may sound, though, the reviewer may be right.
There are things that the writer is just going to overlook, especially when it comes to typos and plot holes. I know that as I write historical fiction I constantly come up against information gaps. From my research, I know a certain fact, and forget that my readers don't know the same fact. The reader is effectively lost. This is the sort of thing that a reviewer is good for.
They can also be good for getting a writer's head out of the sand. Sometimes you get writing and stop thinking about how your writing actually will seem to other people. You get caught up into thinking how amazing it is. You may even go back and reread your work and think, wow! it's amazing. Sometimes it's necessary to pop your bubble, deflate your head, and come back down to good ol' Earth. You know, where there are other people. If you're satisfied to write stuff just for yourself, so that no one else will never read it and you don't mind what other people think, then by all means keep your head in the sand. I, for one, am constantly trying to tell a story, and it's not to myself that I'm telling it.
Sometimes, though, you just know that a reviewers wrong. I've had a few instances where there was a comment on my writing, and I thought, "well, no, actually . . . that's just factually wrong. What I had was right." It frustrates me to see remarks like that, where I know I'm right. It just does. I shouldn't get irritated, I should just ignore it. But we're all human, and it makes us mad to be criticized but even more mad to be criticized about something incorrectly or unfairly. For instance, on one of my latest pieces, someone asked in a written comment, "If she's married, why is she trying to get money?" The answer: just because she's married doesn't mean she doesn't need money! In this case, try your best to ignore it. Do as I say, not as I do: trust that you know what you're talking about., especially if you do!
I've learned to separate out the feedback I get by the person who gave it. In my creative writing classes, I got to know whose comments were useful, whose were illegible, and whose made me roll my eyes. When you know the person reviewing your work, you can judge how much they know, how much their advice can or should be heeded, and whether or not you can trust their spelling. When I'm writing historical fiction, my compatriots in Writer's House weren't necessarily the best reviewers, because they probably don't know too much about Roman Britain or Paris right before the Revolution. Still, I gave it a stab by presenting a short excerpt from a piece about the Affair of the Diamond Necklace (look it up), and this was one of those cases where I had to separate what was useful and what wasn't. Frankly, they didn't know much about the topic. But, they were extremely insightful about the actual writing aspect. My roommate even picked up on something common in my writing: "The story gets better as it progresses. I don't think you were comfortable w it at first." Which is probably true. I often start off without much idea what I'm doing. I just go and see what happens, testing the water if you will. I'll get more and more into it as I go, getting more certain about the scenery, about what needs to be said, about everything. So just because you think a reviewer might be full of crap, there still might be useful stuff. (Okay, just for the record: I'm not saying my roommate was full of crap, but some of the other comments from on the same piece were definitely crap.)
So, that's my lecture for today. Pick and choose, but be aware that you can always improve.
I only bring it up because I got an e-mail yesterday from my literary agent, and the news was mixed. As of the last report, four or five of the ten publishing houses that had received Britannia has rejected it. That left five or six. The e-mail update I got yesterday informed me that only three publishing houses were still considering it. When I saw the e-mail, my heart jumped into my throat in a thrill of panic (see, I used "thrill" as a noun, meaning an intense reaction). And now I have to wait and wait and have this nagging hope in the back of my head, always trying to force its way forward into my consciousness. I don't want to think about it, though, because that would mean that I care; and if I care, then I will be sorely disappointed when I am rejected by the last three. And make no mistake about it: I'm cynical, and I know deep down in my heart that I'm going to be rejected by every publishing house. It isn't that I don't have faith in Britannia so much as I don't have faith in other people.
But let's steer this blog into a more pedantic stream, shall we? After all, this is meant to be a help and resource for creative writers, not necessarily my place to rant.
What do you do when you get negative feedback?
It sings. I know it, I've been rejected plenty of times before (and not just when it comes to creative writing, believe you me!). Your reading your piece and thinking, "I wouldn't change a single word! I love this part especially!" But you get a note from a friend who you asked to look over it, and they tore that part of your work to shreds. You're livid, you know they're an idiot and that they don't know what they're talking about. They were just trying to make your writing like their writing, or like their favorite author's writing, or they just don't understand how to write creatively. They just don't get it. They're not used to your genre. They're not used to your style. They don't know what the heck they're talking about.
As horrible as it may sound, though, the reviewer may be right.
There are things that the writer is just going to overlook, especially when it comes to typos and plot holes. I know that as I write historical fiction I constantly come up against information gaps. From my research, I know a certain fact, and forget that my readers don't know the same fact. The reader is effectively lost. This is the sort of thing that a reviewer is good for.
They can also be good for getting a writer's head out of the sand. Sometimes you get writing and stop thinking about how your writing actually will seem to other people. You get caught up into thinking how amazing it is. You may even go back and reread your work and think, wow! it's amazing. Sometimes it's necessary to pop your bubble, deflate your head, and come back down to good ol' Earth. You know, where there are other people. If you're satisfied to write stuff just for yourself, so that no one else will never read it and you don't mind what other people think, then by all means keep your head in the sand. I, for one, am constantly trying to tell a story, and it's not to myself that I'm telling it.
Sometimes, though, you just know that a reviewers wrong. I've had a few instances where there was a comment on my writing, and I thought, "well, no, actually . . . that's just factually wrong. What I had was right." It frustrates me to see remarks like that, where I know I'm right. It just does. I shouldn't get irritated, I should just ignore it. But we're all human, and it makes us mad to be criticized but even more mad to be criticized about something incorrectly or unfairly. For instance, on one of my latest pieces, someone asked in a written comment, "If she's married, why is she trying to get money?" The answer: just because she's married doesn't mean she doesn't need money! In this case, try your best to ignore it. Do as I say, not as I do: trust that you know what you're talking about., especially if you do!
I've learned to separate out the feedback I get by the person who gave it. In my creative writing classes, I got to know whose comments were useful, whose were illegible, and whose made me roll my eyes. When you know the person reviewing your work, you can judge how much they know, how much their advice can or should be heeded, and whether or not you can trust their spelling. When I'm writing historical fiction, my compatriots in Writer's House weren't necessarily the best reviewers, because they probably don't know too much about Roman Britain or Paris right before the Revolution. Still, I gave it a stab by presenting a short excerpt from a piece about the Affair of the Diamond Necklace (look it up), and this was one of those cases where I had to separate what was useful and what wasn't. Frankly, they didn't know much about the topic. But, they were extremely insightful about the actual writing aspect. My roommate even picked up on something common in my writing: "The story gets better as it progresses. I don't think you were comfortable w it at first." Which is probably true. I often start off without much idea what I'm doing. I just go and see what happens, testing the water if you will. I'll get more and more into it as I go, getting more certain about the scenery, about what needs to be said, about everything. So just because you think a reviewer might be full of crap, there still might be useful stuff. (Okay, just for the record: I'm not saying my roommate was full of crap, but some of the other comments from on the same piece were definitely crap.)
So, that's my lecture for today. Pick and choose, but be aware that you can always improve.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
The Depths and Heights of Big Words
You can pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about, but (assuming that you like to read) you've probably come across a lot of pretentious crap. You know the sort; you can feel, the writer straining to be great. You can feel him or her reaching for the most impressive word. The strain comes across in their writing, and, frankly, is transferred to you, the reader (we're assuming for a moment that you are not the writer of this crap). How beleaguering, like being crushed under the stultifying weight of a stifling leaden encumbrance. Was that pretentious enough? Okay, I tried; in this format it's harder to be pretentious (no one's saying I'm completely innocent of pretentiousness, mind you).
But we are NOT concerned with the reader's plight; the reader can just stop reading. The writer, on the other hand, needs to be aware if they're guilty of pretentiousness.
The first and most obvious thing is to ask for feedback. Make sure it's honest. A good friend may not actually be best; they might not tell you to your face that you're trying too hard in your writing or that your writing sounds pompous. It isn't very nice.
I know it's been said before, but bigger doesn't always mean better when it comes to words. Don't get yourself into thinking that because it's a "big" word, it's the right one. If you're writing a sentence that needs the word "pretty" then use "pretty", not "sumptuous". Sumptuous has different connotations, just like every word. You might not want to add on the connotations that some bigger words might bring with them. It's linguistic baggage if you like. You have to make sure that baggage is what you want. The idea is to be precise, not to impress anyone. The precise word may not be a large, complicated, polysyllabic, Latinate word, but a simple monosyllabic gem.
This may also seem obvious, but keep it in mind: do NOT use a word that you don't fully understand. There may be words that you've come across while reading and that come to your mind. If you don't have a complete understanding of the word, though, for the love of God, find out what it means or just use a word you know. There's nothing worse than reading a story where a word is used in a wrong way. Sometimes even looking up the word isn't enough; there are connotations to go along with dictionary denotations. Expand your vocabulary; reading a lot will give you a much better understanding of the nuances that certain words carry.
Be careful to keep to your own register. Register, in case someone doesn't know, is the level of word usage, ie from simple words to large, technical words. If your vocabulary is expansive and you have confidence that your audience will be able to enjoy your writing even with big words, then by all means use lots of words that are never used in everyday speech (like pernicious; ever heard that one spoken out loud?). But if you're best with everyday conversation containing lots of one-syllable words, then go for it. Good writing doesn't have to be in a high register. If you try to go above or below your natural register, you run into trouble. A person with a huge vocab will end up throwing in completely inappropriate and random big words and someone not comfortable with a high register will use words incorrectly.
If you stop and think, "Is this literary enough?", you may be thinking too much. You have to do what comes naturally, and don't try to impress anyone. Trust me (and you probably know it), when a writer is trying to impress you or is trying too hard, the reader can definitely tell!
But we are NOT concerned with the reader's plight; the reader can just stop reading. The writer, on the other hand, needs to be aware if they're guilty of pretentiousness.
The first and most obvious thing is to ask for feedback. Make sure it's honest. A good friend may not actually be best; they might not tell you to your face that you're trying too hard in your writing or that your writing sounds pompous. It isn't very nice.
I know it's been said before, but bigger doesn't always mean better when it comes to words. Don't get yourself into thinking that because it's a "big" word, it's the right one. If you're writing a sentence that needs the word "pretty" then use "pretty", not "sumptuous". Sumptuous has different connotations, just like every word. You might not want to add on the connotations that some bigger words might bring with them. It's linguistic baggage if you like. You have to make sure that baggage is what you want. The idea is to be precise, not to impress anyone. The precise word may not be a large, complicated, polysyllabic, Latinate word, but a simple monosyllabic gem.
This may also seem obvious, but keep it in mind: do NOT use a word that you don't fully understand. There may be words that you've come across while reading and that come to your mind. If you don't have a complete understanding of the word, though, for the love of God, find out what it means or just use a word you know. There's nothing worse than reading a story where a word is used in a wrong way. Sometimes even looking up the word isn't enough; there are connotations to go along with dictionary denotations. Expand your vocabulary; reading a lot will give you a much better understanding of the nuances that certain words carry.
Be careful to keep to your own register. Register, in case someone doesn't know, is the level of word usage, ie from simple words to large, technical words. If your vocabulary is expansive and you have confidence that your audience will be able to enjoy your writing even with big words, then by all means use lots of words that are never used in everyday speech (like pernicious; ever heard that one spoken out loud?). But if you're best with everyday conversation containing lots of one-syllable words, then go for it. Good writing doesn't have to be in a high register. If you try to go above or below your natural register, you run into trouble. A person with a huge vocab will end up throwing in completely inappropriate and random big words and someone not comfortable with a high register will use words incorrectly.
If you stop and think, "Is this literary enough?", you may be thinking too much. You have to do what comes naturally, and don't try to impress anyone. Trust me (and you probably know it), when a writer is trying to impress you or is trying too hard, the reader can definitely tell!
Thursday, June 21, 2007
A Sample of My Work
So, per my promises and previous descriptions of this blog, I will be giving little bits and pieces of my own creative writing, just to show what I do. I should note that my chosen genre is historical fiction. When I first began writing "seriously" (I was like 11, but I was sure I was writing books), I wrote about gymnastics because I was crazy about gymnastics. Then I started writing fantasy because I'd gotten into the fantasy/sci-fi genre (I happen to think that Harry Potter, the Sabriel books, and the Animorphs series are brilliant--so sue me!).
I've now moved on to doing historical fiction because, as I like to say, history is nothing but one very long string of great stories. All you have to do is look and you have an instant frame for a story. Case in point; one day I was reading about Boudicca's rebellion and I thought to myself, what HAPPENED to her daughters? So I decided to write the answer in the form of a novel. Then, some time later, I read about the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, and I thought to myself, "what the heck actually happened here?" I am currently in the process of writing an answer--in the form of course, of a novel (that's how I roll, yo). In any case (and abandoning all ghetto-ness--well, okay, not all of it, I'm pretty street, ha!), this is a little bit of THAT. Hopefully it doesn't need much explanation.
Jacques Claude Beugnot was the son of a magistrate, educated heavily in the law in Paris. He had graduated cum laude. He had graduated with shining prospects. He was a smart man, there was no question about it. He did not do stupid things, in general. He wiped his feet when he entered his house, he folded his napkin up and placed it beside his plate when he was done eating. He stored his dozen pairs of shoes in order by their color, and he hung his frockcoats according to the day of the week he was allowed to wear them--Wednesdays, he had found, were not conducive to reds. He had pled several important cases already, getting a sizeable amount of money returned to a widow, and getting a stipend for a ward of the crown. He was clearly more than normally intelligent.
Which was why he surprised himself by standing languidly at a window of his home, staring out at the street to catch a glimpse of his carriage traveling around the nearest corner. He ought to have known better, was the real problem, and he knew that well enough. But the current case wasn’t interesting him at the moment and the street held the promise of something—or rather someone—sensational. It was the young Valois girl, the ridiculous Valois girl, with hope deep in her eyes, who was coming.
He was startled to see the carriage rolling around the corner; he was almost afraid that he was still daydreaming. He pushed the curtain out of the way to be certain that the carriage was really his and that the Valois girl’s bonnet was bouncing along on the other side of the carriage window. Once he had assured himself that the coat of arms was his own and that he was not imagining the young lady within, Beugnot dashed out of his study with his shoes clacking on the wood floors. He hurried down the stairs and nearly knocked a vase from its stand as he leapt the last few stairs. Outside, he heard the carriage pulling up to a stop at the front door. Before the door could be opened by a butler, Monsieur Beugnot sprinted across the front hall, brushed aside the butler, and flung open the door himself, in time to see Madame de La Motte taking her first step up to the house. When she looked up, it was with a brilliant smile of joy.
“Monsieur,” she said, dipping into a polite curtsy. Despite the steps she stood on, she kept her balance. “Monsieur, your lackey is an absolute ass. He isn’t fit to lick my boot. I ask that you fire him.”
“Right away, madame,” said Beugnot offhandedly. He liked to look at Madame de La Motte, not listen to her. The lackey had worked for the family for fifteen years. “Hurry inside, it’s beginning to rain.”
“Your chivalry is slightly belated, I’m afraid,” said Madame de La Motte, continuing up the stairs past him. “My hair was already ruined by the rudeness of your lackey. Aren’t you going to fire him?”
Beignot looked out the door. The carriage was beginning to role towards the stables. “Perhaps after he’s put away the carriage, Madame.”
He closed the door as the butler took Madame de La Motte’s cloak. She gave a shiver in the coolness of the marble-floored foyer. Monsieur Beugnot poked out his elbow for her and she latched her arm onto his, drawing close for the warmth.
“Satin is not very warm,” she said.
“But the weather isn’t cold.”
“It’s cold enough,” said Madame de La Motte. “The Hotel de Reims is leaky and drafty. It’s abysmal, I say.”
“Is that your roundabout way of pilfering a grant of money from me?”
“Pilfer? Grant? I’m surprised at you. I only ask loans, which are given in friendship to a poor lady in the direst of need. I will pay them all back once I am able to. And, oh monsieur, the prospects are suddenly looking much brighter.”
“Have you done what I advised? Going to the king’s ministers?”
He helped her up the stairs. Her little performance with the Cardinal seemed to have been taxing. She looked a little weary, and the rain had ruined her coiffure and her makeup. When they reached the top of the stairs, she paused to catch her breath.
“No, monsieur, I took your carriage to the Palais-Cardinal.”
“The Palais-Cardinal, Jeanne? I thought that you were going to court to importune the authorities on your behalf, that you were going to do this thing properly as I advised.”
She looked at him gravely and patted his hand consolingly. “Well, Jacques, I considered your advice very carefully. But I’m not getting any younger and I can’t sit idly around waiting on lawyer’s quibbles.”
“Quibbles?”
They paused outside of Beugnot’s study, each staring at the other in mild indignation. Beugnot was a little miffed at having been deceived. It reminded him that he was a fool when it came to Madame de La Motte. He always seemed to forget about her; she had shown that she was untrustworthy when she replaced Monsieur Beugnot with another lover.
“Jeanne, I told you what you had to do. These things can’t be done willy-nilly. There is a proper avenue for petitions to the king, there are people to talk to and opinions to win over. There are—“
Madame de La Motte laughed.
“Monsieur, you know better than that. I’m tired of talking to people and going through proper avenues. I’m content to find my own way. As I said, I considered your advice very carefully; then I went to see the Cardinal.”
“And?”
“He was very friendly.”
This raised the alarm bells in Beugnot’s head, but they were small and soft. Surely, Madame de La Motte was not implying what he feared she was implying, and clearly she was not as devious as he feared. Gently, he guided her back towards the stairs. Alarm bells or not, Madame de La Motte was not staying for supper. If she did not want his advice, then he would not give it, and she wouldn’t have the benefit of his companionship. Besides which, he had no proper cook, and he certainly wasn’t capable of cooking a meal himself.
“Aren’t we going to sit?” she asked in surprise as she was guided back towards the stairs. “You aren’t going to even offer me a seat? It’s been a long day, Monsieur! I thought that you would be happy.”
“Madame, I am as happy for you as the situation warrants,” he said. “But really, I had ordered just a simple supper, I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in staying for that. I insist, really, and I have so much work to do, Jeanne.”
She pouted. “Are you shunning me?”
“No,” he said as he guided her back down the stairs. She shoved back a lock of hair, and he softened a little towards her. “Jeanne, I am and will always be your good friend and admirer. The path you chose is the wrong one. When you need my help to extricate yourself from the mess that you are getting yourself into, I will be here for you. In the meantime, I am happy to have dinner anytime at a café with you.”
Her glittering smile rewarded him. She pressed her lips against each cheek and laid her fingers along his cheek affectionately.
“You’re a good man, Monsieur. You’re a little overconfident, though.”
“Of course I am, Madame,” he said, “I’m a lawyer.”
And so he regretfully shunted her out of the door, and became a little more disenchanted with her. It was a pity really; the enchantment was so much fun, it seemed a shame to lose it.
I've now moved on to doing historical fiction because, as I like to say, history is nothing but one very long string of great stories. All you have to do is look and you have an instant frame for a story. Case in point; one day I was reading about Boudicca's rebellion and I thought to myself, what HAPPENED to her daughters? So I decided to write the answer in the form of a novel. Then, some time later, I read about the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, and I thought to myself, "what the heck actually happened here?" I am currently in the process of writing an answer--in the form of course, of a novel (that's how I roll, yo). In any case (and abandoning all ghetto-ness--well, okay, not all of it, I'm pretty street, ha!), this is a little bit of THAT. Hopefully it doesn't need much explanation.
Jacques Claude Beugnot was the son of a magistrate, educated heavily in the law in Paris. He had graduated cum laude. He had graduated with shining prospects. He was a smart man, there was no question about it. He did not do stupid things, in general. He wiped his feet when he entered his house, he folded his napkin up and placed it beside his plate when he was done eating. He stored his dozen pairs of shoes in order by their color, and he hung his frockcoats according to the day of the week he was allowed to wear them--Wednesdays, he had found, were not conducive to reds. He had pled several important cases already, getting a sizeable amount of money returned to a widow, and getting a stipend for a ward of the crown. He was clearly more than normally intelligent.
Which was why he surprised himself by standing languidly at a window of his home, staring out at the street to catch a glimpse of his carriage traveling around the nearest corner. He ought to have known better, was the real problem, and he knew that well enough. But the current case wasn’t interesting him at the moment and the street held the promise of something—or rather someone—sensational. It was the young Valois girl, the ridiculous Valois girl, with hope deep in her eyes, who was coming.
He was startled to see the carriage rolling around the corner; he was almost afraid that he was still daydreaming. He pushed the curtain out of the way to be certain that the carriage was really his and that the Valois girl’s bonnet was bouncing along on the other side of the carriage window. Once he had assured himself that the coat of arms was his own and that he was not imagining the young lady within, Beugnot dashed out of his study with his shoes clacking on the wood floors. He hurried down the stairs and nearly knocked a vase from its stand as he leapt the last few stairs. Outside, he heard the carriage pulling up to a stop at the front door. Before the door could be opened by a butler, Monsieur Beugnot sprinted across the front hall, brushed aside the butler, and flung open the door himself, in time to see Madame de La Motte taking her first step up to the house. When she looked up, it was with a brilliant smile of joy.
“Monsieur,” she said, dipping into a polite curtsy. Despite the steps she stood on, she kept her balance. “Monsieur, your lackey is an absolute ass. He isn’t fit to lick my boot. I ask that you fire him.”
“Right away, madame,” said Beugnot offhandedly. He liked to look at Madame de La Motte, not listen to her. The lackey had worked for the family for fifteen years. “Hurry inside, it’s beginning to rain.”
“Your chivalry is slightly belated, I’m afraid,” said Madame de La Motte, continuing up the stairs past him. “My hair was already ruined by the rudeness of your lackey. Aren’t you going to fire him?”
Beignot looked out the door. The carriage was beginning to role towards the stables. “Perhaps after he’s put away the carriage, Madame.”
He closed the door as the butler took Madame de La Motte’s cloak. She gave a shiver in the coolness of the marble-floored foyer. Monsieur Beugnot poked out his elbow for her and she latched her arm onto his, drawing close for the warmth.
“Satin is not very warm,” she said.
“But the weather isn’t cold.”
“It’s cold enough,” said Madame de La Motte. “The Hotel de Reims is leaky and drafty. It’s abysmal, I say.”
“Is that your roundabout way of pilfering a grant of money from me?”
“Pilfer? Grant? I’m surprised at you. I only ask loans, which are given in friendship to a poor lady in the direst of need. I will pay them all back once I am able to. And, oh monsieur, the prospects are suddenly looking much brighter.”
“Have you done what I advised? Going to the king’s ministers?”
He helped her up the stairs. Her little performance with the Cardinal seemed to have been taxing. She looked a little weary, and the rain had ruined her coiffure and her makeup. When they reached the top of the stairs, she paused to catch her breath.
“No, monsieur, I took your carriage to the Palais-Cardinal.”
“The Palais-Cardinal, Jeanne? I thought that you were going to court to importune the authorities on your behalf, that you were going to do this thing properly as I advised.”
She looked at him gravely and patted his hand consolingly. “Well, Jacques, I considered your advice very carefully. But I’m not getting any younger and I can’t sit idly around waiting on lawyer’s quibbles.”
“Quibbles?”
They paused outside of Beugnot’s study, each staring at the other in mild indignation. Beugnot was a little miffed at having been deceived. It reminded him that he was a fool when it came to Madame de La Motte. He always seemed to forget about her; she had shown that she was untrustworthy when she replaced Monsieur Beugnot with another lover.
“Jeanne, I told you what you had to do. These things can’t be done willy-nilly. There is a proper avenue for petitions to the king, there are people to talk to and opinions to win over. There are—“
Madame de La Motte laughed.
“Monsieur, you know better than that. I’m tired of talking to people and going through proper avenues. I’m content to find my own way. As I said, I considered your advice very carefully; then I went to see the Cardinal.”
“And?”
“He was very friendly.”
This raised the alarm bells in Beugnot’s head, but they were small and soft. Surely, Madame de La Motte was not implying what he feared she was implying, and clearly she was not as devious as he feared. Gently, he guided her back towards the stairs. Alarm bells or not, Madame de La Motte was not staying for supper. If she did not want his advice, then he would not give it, and she wouldn’t have the benefit of his companionship. Besides which, he had no proper cook, and he certainly wasn’t capable of cooking a meal himself.
“Aren’t we going to sit?” she asked in surprise as she was guided back towards the stairs. “You aren’t going to even offer me a seat? It’s been a long day, Monsieur! I thought that you would be happy.”
“Madame, I am as happy for you as the situation warrants,” he said. “But really, I had ordered just a simple supper, I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in staying for that. I insist, really, and I have so much work to do, Jeanne.”
She pouted. “Are you shunning me?”
“No,” he said as he guided her back down the stairs. She shoved back a lock of hair, and he softened a little towards her. “Jeanne, I am and will always be your good friend and admirer. The path you chose is the wrong one. When you need my help to extricate yourself from the mess that you are getting yourself into, I will be here for you. In the meantime, I am happy to have dinner anytime at a café with you.”
Her glittering smile rewarded him. She pressed her lips against each cheek and laid her fingers along his cheek affectionately.
“You’re a good man, Monsieur. You’re a little overconfident, though.”
“Of course I am, Madame,” he said, “I’m a lawyer.”
And so he regretfully shunted her out of the door, and became a little more disenchanted with her. It was a pity really; the enchantment was so much fun, it seemed a shame to lose it.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Philosophy of Composition
How exactly does one go about writing a poem? A story? Any work of literature? Inspiration, right? If an idea flashes brilliantly to your mind, then you write it. You sit, you write. It's like Michelangelo's David being found inside the stone. Right?
Not necessaily. You might be surprised; Edgar Allen Poe, for example, wrote a lengthy article title The Philosophy of Composition. Almost everyone who's gone through grade school has read The Raven at least once, and not a few people have seen The Simpson's version of it (who says The Simpsons is trash? Not me!).
Reading it, you think you are peering into the deep recesses of a strange mind, that this could have only come from divine inspiration, that Mr. Poe sat down one day and bled The Raven onto the page. That is what I pictued, at least. But if you stop for a moment and think . . . exactly how much internal rhyme and meter can a person produce on the fly? Clearly, this wasn't all just Mr. Poe sitting under a tree and pulling out his notebook to jot down this poem like some emo teenager (not that there's anything wrong with being an emo teenager . . . ).
And The Philosophy of Composition confirms that. Edgar Allen Poe not only did NOT have divine inspiration, every bit of The Raven was thought out and plotted almost like a manager would create a business plan in this day in age. He quite literally set out to write the best poem ever written. He thought to himself: what is the optimal length? what is the most heart-rending topic? how to keep an audience's attention while maintaining continuity? The answers were: about a hundred lines, the death of a beautiful woman, and a refrain that's meaning changes as it is repeated through the poem. A bit shocking to find that the brilliance was, well, not exactly spontaneous.
So what's the point and purpose of this post? I just wanted to show an example of things that I was talking about in the last post; ideas and good writing are great, but there has to be a plan, an overall thought-process guiding the details. Besides, this is a really interesting read, especially for creative writers. Go ahead, take a look.
I will discuss a little more about the theories in this essay in another post.
Not necessaily. You might be surprised; Edgar Allen Poe, for example, wrote a lengthy article title The Philosophy of Composition. Almost everyone who's gone through grade school has read The Raven at least once, and not a few people have seen The Simpson's version of it (who says The Simpsons is trash? Not me!).
Reading it, you think you are peering into the deep recesses of a strange mind, that this could have only come from divine inspiration, that Mr. Poe sat down one day and bled The Raven onto the page. That is what I pictued, at least. But if you stop for a moment and think . . . exactly how much internal rhyme and meter can a person produce on the fly? Clearly, this wasn't all just Mr. Poe sitting under a tree and pulling out his notebook to jot down this poem like some emo teenager (not that there's anything wrong with being an emo teenager . . . ).
And The Philosophy of Composition confirms that. Edgar Allen Poe not only did NOT have divine inspiration, every bit of The Raven was thought out and plotted almost like a manager would create a business plan in this day in age. He quite literally set out to write the best poem ever written. He thought to himself: what is the optimal length? what is the most heart-rending topic? how to keep an audience's attention while maintaining continuity? The answers were: about a hundred lines, the death of a beautiful woman, and a refrain that's meaning changes as it is repeated through the poem. A bit shocking to find that the brilliance was, well, not exactly spontaneous.
So what's the point and purpose of this post? I just wanted to show an example of things that I was talking about in the last post; ideas and good writing are great, but there has to be a plan, an overall thought-process guiding the details. Besides, this is a really interesting read, especially for creative writers. Go ahead, take a look.
I will discuss a little more about the theories in this essay in another post.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)