Beautiful Writing

Of course I have to talk about the American Declaration of Independence today, the 233rd anniversary of its adoption. I thought about uploading the whole thing here, but decided that was too much. Instead, I’m just going to highlight a few of my favorite phrases and, maybe, talk about why I love them so much.

When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

I like the neatness with which the reason for the declaration is laid out: Here’s what this is for.

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people and eat out their substance.

This just delights me with its vividness, and with its suggestion of locusts, which I don’t think is in the least bit accidental.

And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

It’s the rhythm of the last phrase that kills me.

It’s a great document that deserves to be read through at least once. The only piece of writing, connected with the founding of my country, that I love more is the preamble to the Constitution of the United States:

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Owie

Nothing much to say: the little noodle is pounding, has been pounding most of the day. I’m blaming sunshine: after so much gloom, my system can’t handle it.

Reading More of the Same

I knew there was something I wanted to say yesterday that I forgot…

I was thinking about Dunn’s The Sixth Wife, and all the books about Henry VIII, his wives and children I’ve read over the years, fiction and non-fiction, in conjunction with the article in Newsweek. As with re-reading, I read many different books on the same subject for a few different reasons. In the case of more of the same, every writer comes at the same set of facts in a different way, giving differing weights to different pieces of information, so that reading different books on the same subject is like playing with a kaleidoscope. The colors are all the same, but the patterns they make change. 

By reading different writers on the same subject, I’m more likely to build up a fairly accurate picture of the subject. Robin Abrahams, who writes the Miss Conduct column for the Boston Globe, has a post on her website that supports my feeling about my accuracy. Essentially, I’m crowdsourcing through my reading.

Of course, it helps to be seriously interested in the subject. I have a mild interest in any number of things, but a passionate interest in very few. I’m unlikely to do a lot of in-depth reading on my mild interests. So my understanding of those things will be hampered. I can live with that: so many books, so little time…

Re-reading Redux

I learned this week that some people feel guilty about re-reading. Apparently, they feel they ought to be spending their reading time reading new things.

I suppose there’s some sense to that.  The problem for me is that the pleasure of re-reading is different than the pleasure of first-reading, and it’s a pleasure I’m not willing to forgo. Well, and there’s also the fact that I don’t read like a fiend because it’s good for me. I read because I love to read, or at least need to read.

Right now, I’m re-reading Meljean Brook’s Demon Moon, which is a prime candidate for re-reading. Brook trusts the reader to figure things out, which means you have to figure it all out, and that means it’s entirely possible I missed stuff the first time around. When you know the story, and there are layers and depths, prior knowledge adds richness. And that’s the kind of thing I re-read for.

Silence is Golden

Back in October, I wrote a post about reviews. In it, I said that I had no intention of reading reviews of my own books (assuming I sell something).

Apparently over the weekend, a well-known author (whose books I have enjoyed) took public exception to a review she received. (I’m hearing about this after the fact.) I mostly understand the emotion behind what she did — I’ve had reviews that stung, that depressed me for days. And that was only on two books. I can understand cursing the reviewer and all her offspring, writing nastygrams (on paper, so they don’t get loose, or using a computer not connected to the internet), all that.

I can even understand the impulse to take one’s unhappiness public, attacking those that have hurt you. However — as many people have pointed out when discussing this — you can’t win when you’re the author. You can only make yourself look badly, and bring attention to something you might have preferred stayed hidden.

Which is yet another reason not to read reviews of my work.

Stuck, In A Good Way

I ended up writing 400 words last night, rather more than I expected, or even hoped. I started the next scene, the one immediately after the big turning point. Since this scene is Ilsabet’s reaction to the turning point — which is in Narthé’s point of view — I had something to start with.

But once I got through her initial processing of what happened — what then? I still don’t know. I thought about it all the way home on the bus, and had some floaty ideas, but nothing that reallygelled. I might end up taking the night off, because I don’t know what to do next.

Of course, every time I think, “I’m gonna take the night off,” I turn into a scribbling fiend.  And, really, if I am stuck, I’m stuck in a good way.

June Miscellany

Why am I watching ‘Die Hard 2′, which features a plane exploding, when I’m flying in two weeks…and I’m already afraid of flying? The movie’s so stupid, it shouldn’t make any difference, but still…

I’m going to Washington D.C., for RWA’s National conference. The last time I went to DC for RWA’s National conference, the Concord blew up on take-off in Paris. I arrived at the hotel to footage of a plane exploding. I sincerely hope that doesn’t happen again.

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Today was another busy day, though I haven’t got much done on the writing front (yet). I did three loads of laundry, went to the gym, did a little food shopping and got the chance to spend time with my sisters. That alone makes it a fabulous day.

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I finished The Sixth Wife last night.  I don’t think it ’s a keeper — I doubt I’ll re-read it — but I don’t regret spending the money on it. I thought the portrayals of Elizabeth Tudor and Jane Grey were very interesting and expect they’ll color my view of those two women going forward. It’s surprising to me how vivid those portrayals were, given how little time either woman spent on the page.

Of course, now I have no idea what I’m going to read. It’s not the book version of ‘57 Channels and Nothing On’ — I don’t think any of the 500 books I have is a dud. I just don’t know which of them is next.

Strange Day

My sister G, with whom I generally jaunt on Saturdays, had other plans, so I was on my own today. I got up, rode the exercise bike, and did a lot of work on my story. The spreadsheet I have that tracks my progress says I wrote 656 words today, but I’m skeptical — it didn’t feel as if I wrote over 600 words. But maybe I did. This morning is kind of a blur. I do know I got a lot done because the scene I’m working on — the everlasting turning point scene — is nearly finished.

Well, as finished as it will be until final revisions.

Other than that, I feel as if I’ve been active and productive, but I couldn’t tell you what I did if you begged.

Now I want ice cream, but I don’t think I’m getting any.

Oh, well. Probably better for me all around.

Change and Permanence

I used to have a roommate who would sometimes say, when her behavior or attitude was questioned, that she was the way she was and she couldn’t change it. That annoyed my then-boyfriend, who wanted to be a psychologist; he believed you could become anything you wanted to be, and my roommate was choosing not to change.

I was reminded of this tonight because I borrowed the complete first season of Showtime’s The Tudors from the library. As I said before about the end of the third season, the series is more like a weird dream of Henry VIII’s reign than anything truly accurate. I’m also reading Suzannah Dunn’s The Sixth Wife, which is about Katherine Parr, narrated by her friend Catherine Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk. In the book, Katherine Parr is Kate, Catherine Brandon is Cathy, Edward Seymour is Ed, and Edward VI is Eddie.

A few years ago, I would have found the historical license taken by both series and book intolerable, and I would have said that my opinion on that subject would not change. But it has. Both series and book are doing something I tried to do in Prince of Hearts: come at the period from a different perspective. In my case, I wanted to indicate that the English Reformation didn’t happen because Henry VIII had the hots for Anne Boleyn, who wouldn’t sleep with him for anything less than a sure promise of marriage, and the only way to make that happen was to break with Rome. The roots of such a radical change go deeper and farther.

Not that I necessarily think it’s what the producers or author intended, per se. It’s just the choices they’ve made have that consequence. In Dunn’s case, in addition to using modern nicknames (which works for me as a technique for dealing with the confusing and repeating given names of the Tudor period), she comes at the story of Katherine Parr and Thomas Seymour with language that feels 20th, not 16th, century. This, for me, has the effect of making the story seem more real, the people human beings and not stiff portraits on a wall. I know the story so well that it’s refreshing to me to see it from this altered perspective. I’m getting it in a new way, something I wouldn’t have thought possible a year ago.

Okay, so that’s a change. Does that mean I agree with the ex-boyfriend? Erm, no. I think there are fundamental things about who we are that don’t change, not at a basic level. How we express those things changes, but not their existence. For example, I feel things intensely. (This isn’t just my perception; this is something other people have observed.) I felt things intensely when I was very small; my memories of my fierce little heart are vivid. In between, I swallowed and smothered those feelings, cutting myself off from them. But they were still there.

This is all well and good, but is there are a larger point?

Of course there is. All of this goes into my writing. Everything, everything, is grist for the mill. As a writer, part of my job is to figure out which things are fundamental to my characters, and which things will change.

Owwwww….

Usually, headaches start when I’m asleep and fade away late in the afternoon. Today, one started after 4:00. It’s the kind that stabs me in the temple and upsets my stomach. Bleah. I managed to write anyway, but I’m creeping off to bed as soon as it gets dark.

Which will be later than it has been, because there’s no overcast to darken things prematurely.

Some days are better than others.