I have come to wonder how I can proudly refer to myself as an English major without having read so many of "the classics." What can I learn from these great authors that will not only make me more well-rounded but will also improve my own writing?
To that end, I have made the pledge to read more of them--while not forsaking more modern works, of course.
First on my list: All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. It's certainly not light summer fare, but I quite appreciate his writing style.
I'm not sure which book will be next on my list, but I think it needs to be Hemingway. I never made it through The Old Man and the Sea in high school and have carried a vague, undefinable, and rather unsubstantiated aversion to his work ever since.
June 30, 2008
Back to the Classics
Happy Birthday, Patrick Hemingway!
I found this guy while reading a post by one of my favorite bloggers. Anyway, his post is about Patrick Hemingway's 80th birthday. Patrick is one of the sons of Ernest. NPR aired an interview with him a couple of days ago, and I thought it was quite interesting.
The money quote: "...literature is what, I think, intelligent people have instead of dope."
June 20, 2008
Revisiting...
A recent comment by a reader asked whether I had revised Isobella. I haven't, but my excesses in verbosity certainly make that one a prime target for my trusty red editing pencil (it'll make a heck of a mess on my computer screen, but that's okay). I've whittled it down from 54 words to 31. I don't know that I'm completely finished with it, and I could maybe even see it as a longer story. But then again, seeing a whole story in one sentence is kind of the point of it, right?
June 7, 2008
I Can Has Diploma?
I found this over at The Eleventh, one of my daily reading spots, and decided to try my own. It seems as though they use some sort of readability metric (length of sentences, vocabulary difficulty, & etc.). Cute to know, though.
June 6, 2008
My First Book--The Beginning
In addition to sharing the short stories I wrote, the biggest part of my reasoning for starting this blog was to have a forum for sharing my first book as I wrote it. To that end, this post presents what I conceive to be the opening scene. While the main character, Chloe, encounters many troubles, the purpose of the book is to examine how she deals with these difficulties and how her life works out.
Let me know what you think!
June 1918
I’ve never put great stock in the idea that dreams have any sort of great meaning. Besides, trying to remember my dreams drives them from my grasp that much faster. Sometimes, though. Sometimes dreams hold on to us.
“Won’t be but a minute,” I said over my shoulder. I only wanted to change clothes after church before lunch with Lela and Waylon. The cotton stockings itched my legs fiercely, and I barely managed to close the door before clawing them down around my ankles and raking my fingernails up and down my legs. Oh, heavens, that felt good. Propriety might dictate that I wear stockings to church, but Lela knew I rarely wore them otherwise.
Pre-occupied with rolling up my stockings and wondering whether or not my baby would let me out of her sight for five minutes—not always a sure-fire bet—and let her aunt hold her, I didn’t see the man standing in the bedroom.
Catching only a glimpse of a figure near me, I jumped. An intruder? Had I startled a burglar? What would he do to me before anyone thought to come check on me? My heart pounded in my chest as the adrenaline coursed through my veins. Sparkly blue lights flashed around my quickly shrinking field of vision, and I fainted.
Some time later, I roused to consciousness as Adlai brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Hello, Chloe,” he said, caressing my cheek. “I’ve missed you.”
“Am I dreaming?” I asked. I reached out and touched his face. “Are you really here?” He looked no different than he had when I last saw him. I traced a finger through that funny little cowlick over his right ear, his close-cropped, Army haircut showing it quite readily.
He smiled. “Can’t get rid of me if you tried,” he said. How comforting to hear once again his slow, Texan drawl as it enveloped me.
I sat up and embraced him as tears sprung to my eyes. “When did you get here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home? I would have met you at the station,” I said, words tumbling out on top of each other like so many toy blocks.
“Wanted to surprise you, that’s all. You’re not mad, are you?” he asked, clasping his hands to my cheeks. “I kept my promise, just like I told you I would.” Before I had a chance to respond, to tell him that I could never be mad at him, he said, “Where’s the baby? Where’s Ruth? I want to see our daughter.” Tears glistened in his eyes.
“Oh, Adlai, she’s—”
“Chloe? You okay?” Lela called from the front door, intruding into our reunion.
From somewhere near her, I heard my daughter crying. Irritated and overdue for a feeding, the little girl expressed her displeasure. Loudly. My breasts tingled in response, and I knew I would have to acquiesce to her demands soon.
“Just here,” I replied. “I’ll be right out.” I turned to Adlai and whispered, “I was supposed to eat lunch with Lela and Waylon today. She’s got the baby. Let’s go surprise them!”
Adlai nodded and stood, almost knocking me over. “What’s she like? Ruthie, I mean,” he said, glancing briefly at the door before turning back to me.
I smiled. Finally, our little family would be together for the first time. “Come see for yourself,” I said, reaching for his hand. Would he recognize himself in her? The dimples, that quirky little cowlick above her right ear, the strawberry birthmark shaped like a butterfly on her bottom: all gifts from her father. His older sister Mabel had laughed when she saw Ruth, angry as all get out, hold her breath and shake as her lips turned a frightening shade of blue; “That’s all Adlai,” she said, patting me on the shoulder and shaking her heard. “Good luck with that.”
We stood, and he followed me into the living room. “Howdy, Sis,” Adlai said over my shoulder, his hands gripping my arms tightly as though I could anchor him to his world again.
“As I live and breathe,” Lela whispered. She took a deep breath, and I noticed her knees quake. I rushed forward to take the baby, and she pushed towards her twin brother. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again!” she said as she reached him.
I grasped Ruth, felt her soft baby skin on my fingers, heard once again her piercing cry for a meal, and awoke, alone, from my dream. My arm lay draped across the bassinet next to my bed; I wiggled my fingers, feeling a plump arm. Ruth screamed, clearly frustrated at having been ignored entirely too long, and I rose to feed her. “Mommy’s right here, baby,” I said with a sigh, the memory ribbon of my dream tracing it’s way through my heart. The dream gave me hope, and I smiled.
June 1, 2008
A Recommendation
I found this book at used bookstore this weekend. As I read it, I find great interest in the process through which these writers have gone as their writing abilities have developed. It has made me take a look at my own early writing--much of which I would never want to see again. I certainly wonder just what kind of cringing these writers went through as they collected these pieces and submitted them to the editor.