I'll Remember That

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I've been scarce around here recently, partly in an effort to rest my eyes, partly in order to let my mind revamp and produce some more ideas.  On the former front, I wrote a chapter by hand this past week (Elisabeth would be proud if she weren't off resting her eyes, too) before deciding most of it wasn't necessary to the story after all.  Eh.  You win some, you lose some.

At any rate, I have been doing some specific research, some general research, and some reading that isn't technically research at all.  I don't typically write about this aspect of my writing, simply because what interests me in its nonfiction format isn't always what interests other folk.  But, on the other hand, sometimes it is enjoyable to hear what tidbits an author has dug up.  So rather than doing a great big post on the Age of Sail or the healing properties of comfrey, here is a snapshot of some of the things that have stood out to me in researching for Tempus Regina and writing in general.

what ho!

The Minoan civilization, which populated Crete and the islands of the Aegean some millennia before the birth of Christ, had running water and sewer systems.  And toilets!  That flushed!  (Sort of.)  If the culture hadn't been wiped out, plumbing might have been widespread much sooner in the history of the West.  I think that constitutes a tragedy.

Aristotelian theory posits that all forms of matter are simply combinations of the four elements (earth, water, fire, and air) in varying proportions, which means that if you were able to alter the proportions, you could change the matter entirely.  Which means that under Aristotelian theory, alchemy is not an unreasonable pursuit.

Chinese alchemy makes no sense, but they did manage to make chemistry sound pretty.

Common speedwell is also known as "Paul's Betony."  I'd like to know if that was the reason for the actor's name.  Probably not.

The walls at the Minoan palace at Knossos were inlaid with wooden frames for support against the frequent seismic activity.  In the final cataclysm it obviously wasn't one hundred percent effective.

Wood avens was once thought to drive away rabid dogs, evil spirits, and venomous snakes.  Good thing to have on hand, I suppose.

The original copper sheathing on the USS Constitution was most likely imported from Britain, not manufactured by Paul Revere; he only got to do the ship's detailing, since his copper company wasn't founded until 1801.  He may, however, have provided the sheathing for the USS Argus in 1803, which is the brig Tip ships out in. 

have you found out anything intriguing of late?

Ventriloquy and Belief

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I finished a book the other day.  (Surprise!)  The Daughter of Time was one of those books that crept up on my consciousness for several months before I got around to actually buying it, and from buying it to reading it.  I don't think I had heard about it before this year, but I understand it is a pretty popular and famous work: a landmark book in the mystery genre, in fact. It is, I think, either the last or the second-to-last book in her Inspector Alan Grant series, the most celebrated, and takes place entirely within the walls of a hospital room.  (Which, by the by, gets quite old.)

The main character is a Scotland Yard Inspector, laid up for several weeks after an injury incurred on the job.  To keep him engaged while he's lying on his back staring at the ceiling, a friend brings him a collection of portraits from historical cold cases - everyone from Mary, Queen of Scots to Louis XVII, the boy-king.  Only one of them, however, catches Grant's eye: a painting of Richard III.  Intrigued by the story of how the wicked uncle murdered his innocent nephews, Grant begins to conduct a police investigation from his hospital bed.  An acquaintance assists by conducting all the research, and the story progresses methodically through back-and-forth conversation between the two men.

Unsurprisingly, this also gets old.  It would be bound to get old in any story that takes place within the same four walls with - let me think - one main character and only about five other people who regularly drift through to talk.  But I realized not far into the book that part of the oldness had to do less with those factors and more with the story not actually being a story.  It is a vindication of Richard III, plain and very simple.  Now, I happen to take an interest in Richard and could follow Tey's arguments with relative equanimity; but even agreeing, I was extraordinarily peeved by the authoress' tactic.  Because it becomes apparent as soon as Richard III's portrait shows up that what you, reader, are getting is Tey's opinion en toto, as articulated by Character 1 and Character 2 with occasional prompting from Random Other Peoples.  It isn't a novel, it's just, well, historical preachiness.

The Daughter of Time is an extreme case, and I would go so far as to wager that Tey intended for it to be.  The trouble, however - the trouble of an invasive author, if I could put it that way - is one that crops up and should crop up before every writer.  We've all heard books described as "too preachy."  It's usually applied to Christian fiction, and it is all too easy to stick our noses in the air and determine that people only say that because there is no longer a belief in objective truth.  Which is very probably the case, but does nothing to alleviate the issue as far as good writing is concerned.

We all have, or ought to have, core beliefs.  If we think we don't, it is only that we don't know what those core beliefs are; and at that point we had either better not write, or better keep our writing private, for the world doesn't need anymore hem-hah-ing and prevaricating.  So I'll start with the statement that we all have beliefs, and that on some level, we desire our writing to reflect that.  We hardly want readers thinking we condone abortion, or adultery, or marriage between believers and unbelievers, when we think just the opposite.  And oftentimes we not only don't want readers getting the wrong impression, but we also have an overdeveloped desire for them to get the right one.  As in, I-must-cram-the-Gospel-Jesus-and-the-Bible-in-if-I-want-to-honor-God-SOHELPME.

It is not a wholly unreasonable wish, and I am not here to tell writers exactly what balance to strike.  But if we desire to write a good story (which, I believe, is just as God-honoring and perhaps even more so than working in the Gospel inappropriately), we must be more attune to the characters themselves and not so quick to override their individual personalities.  We must let them be who they are.  Sayers mentioned this several times in regard to her famous character Lord Peter Wimsey, whom her Christian readers badgered her to "save" - and she ignored them, because it was not part of the character.  In a lesser sense, this is also true whenever a character of ours begins talking, especially about anything theological or philosophical.  Obviously we don't want to be seen as wrong ourselves, or propagate wrong-thinking, so we are more likely to switch into the mode of writing exactly what we believe to be truth in as clear a way as possible.  We do a little ventriloquy act through our characters, and an astute reader can tell.

Too often we think that in our writing we've got to try to evangelize not just the characters, but the readers - even though it is biblically clear that God ordained that work to be done through His Word preached, not through fiction.  Our business is to craft a good story, to let the characters think and say what they would think and say "if free-moving and placed within the literary field."  If that means that they think and say something wrong, well, then they shall.  It is my opinion that our core beliefs will show through the story in some manner; it just shouldn't be through ventriloquy.

“A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.”

g. k. chesterton