Not much I can add to Dan Green’s post on The Reading Experience:
In his insistence that "the true enemies of the novel [are] plot, character, setting and theme," John Hawkes was proposing that fiction also might exhibit such a dispostion toward language, that it might be "poetic" and thereby defiantly, exultantly useless. It is a consummation devoutly to be wished.
After reading through 100 plus query letters, first pages, and comments on Miss Snark’s recent offer of critique, I was getting pretty depressed to find that there were about three that I really saw as creative and exciting. Most were well-written, but lacked anything much over and above the same-old story with different setting and characters. Relationship, health, money usually figured into the main conflict, and there was nothing to set them apart as truly innovative. Unfortunately, the three that I particularly liked were deemed "a mess" by Miss Snark and a large percentage of her readers.
The importance of knowing the difference of good versus saleable must be noted by the hopeful writer. If you want to get published, you need to get past the agent; it has never been as vital as it is in this day to make sure the agents you’re querying generally represent (therefore, like) the style and genre you are presenting. Too, I’ve noticed that if you’re to get the agent’s attention, you have to have that hook in the first page. Sometimes, in the query letter itself.
On the other hand, there are still some of us who while publication is the ultimate goal, we’re just not going to write for the agent alone. There’s the reader to consider, and above that, there’s ourselves to please. And let’s just hope there are always readers who are willing to enjoy experimental fiction as much as the creative writer needs to explore.
Rarely do you get the author’s thoughts on his novel included within the book, and having read this addition, I am struck by Nabokov’s matter-of-fact attitude in the controversy of both subject matter and meaning.
There are gentle souls who would pronounce Lolita meaningless because it does not teach them anything. I am neither a reader nor a writer of didactic fiction, and, despite John Ray’s assertion, Lolita has no moral in tow. For me a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm. There are not many such books. All the rest is either topical trash or what some call the Literature of Ideas, which very often is topical trash coming in huge blocks of plaster that are carefully transmitted from age to age until somebody comes along with a hammer and takes a good crack at Balzac, at Gorki, at Mann. (p. 314)
While I prefer to seek deeper meaning into reading now than I have ever before, it is with a purpose of discovering connections, relationships, subtleties that even (as I have found can very often be the case) the author may not be aware of having inserted. Most authors do not, while plotting story, consider every single aspect of it in view of laying a path that is hidden within the layers of the structure. What I may conclude to be a significant discovery, when proposed to the author may surprise him; delightfully or not.
I read as a writer, therefore also noticing technique and skill with language and plot. One that comes with skill is the unawareness of it being applied. As it becomes natural, the more accomplished author becomes less likely to notice his own exquisite nuances.
This then, regardless of what Nabokov or any author intends, is up to the desire and curiousity of the reader to seek, or choose to remain oblivious and find satisfaction complete in the story alone. This is the nature of the reader: the freedom of expression grants the freedom of interpretation.
It is satisfying to read a novel and follow the story, live with the character for the length of the book and feel that to a certain degree, you understand something about him, in this case, Humbert Humbert. There are other ways to read this book, but it is enough for me to learn the depths of this character and how he represents a portion of human nature. A nature one awry.
On the back cover is the blurb: The only convincing love story of our century. — Vanity Fair.
I think not. Obsession and love are not one and the same. Love is not necessarily driven by lust, and Humbert’s actions are ones of first and foremost, a lust for young girls–nymphets, as he calls them, preferably nine to thirteen years old. This, not Lolita as a personality, is what forms his initial planned pursuit and seduction of her. If he loves her, and I do not doubt that he does, that is an eventual outcome.
Young girls change drastically in physical and mental form between the ages of twelve and fourteen–Lolita’s stage in life when she is with Humbert. There are hints that he becomes displeased with her "aging"; opposite to the more normal reaction of most people to the blooming of womanhood.
For me, the intensity of the prose, the realism of the character, the writing itself that brought me so in touch with the character of Humbert was the value of the reading. The underlying theme of man versus man was strong in Humbert’s own first person pov arguments in defense of and in denouncement of his character:
Reader! What I heard was but the melody of children at play, nothing but that, ans so limpid was the air that ithin this vapor of blended voices, majestic and minute, remote and magically near, frank and divinely enigmatic–one could hear now and then, as if released, an almost articulate spurt of vivid laughter…and then I knew that the hopelessly poignant thing was not Lolita’s absence from my side, but the absence of her voice from the concord. (p. 308)
Nabokov has shown, in the mentally unstable and troubled mind of Humbert, the danger of allowing passion to rule when that passion is a danger to others. He has heartlessly ruined lives, that of Lolita, her mother Charlotte, and of course, Clare Quilty because he was in an intellectual and financial position to go after what he wanted. Perhaps in giving Lolita a personality that is one of a spoiled and manipulative brat, she is less of a sympathetic character but remains more of a metaphor for that which is an object of desire, whether it be illicit pedophilia or wealth and fame. Would the story have been as intense if our caring for a total innocent were to deflect our focus?
Yes, despite Nabokov’s notes at the end of the book that do not invite deep reading into the story, there is still something to be pulled out of his book above the simple narrative (simple only in the idea of an older man’s seduction of a child). I think that Nabokov’s skills would prohibit his writing a simple narrative whether it was his intent or not.
In getting online to get directions to the Canton Library, what do I come across but a notice on a fiction writer group forming at this same library. It’s running for four consecutive weeks, one night a week, and I don’t know if it intends to meet regularly from there, so it’s not exactly what I’m looking for but I am going to look into it.
After planning for a month to go, I almost forgot the Canton Library Book Sale, and luckily noticed the sign on my way from the grocery store. Raced home, got my book list, and with 45 minutes till closing time, drove back, found the library, parked a good hike away from the right door (why can they plaster signs all over town yet not point out which library door is open?), raced through the tables and filled a bag for $5. This method of sale explains the reason for some of these, but I did manage to get one that was on my "To Buy" list.
Eight American Authors – A Review of Research & Criticism
Mystic River – Dennis Lehane
A Man in Full – Tom Wolfe
Ghost Story – Peter Straub
Disclosure – Michael Crichton
Theophilus North – Thornton Wilder
The Thorn Birds – Colleen McCullough
QB VII – Leon Uris
Stories for Late at Night – Alfred Hitchcock
The French Lieutenant’s Woman – John Fowles
The Dean’s December – Saul Bellow
The Andromeda Strain – Michael Crichton
Cold Mountain – Charles Frazier
The Gulag Archipelago – Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
The Odyssey – Homer
Rebecca – Daphne DuMaurier
The last two I’ve read a long time ago, but I didn’t still have my copies of them and they are ones to be reread. Well, sixteen books for five bucks ain’t bad.
Odd thing I’ve noticed at these local libraries sales; my own hometown of Burlington had the best sale for what I am looking for, the classics in fiction and some of the humanities. Either our town is highly literate or they hold onto their books for decades before donating. In which case I fit right in here (obviously buying books I’ve already read). I’d love to see what happens to my own collection some day. I do hope that whoever ends up cleaning out my house lives with and reads some of them before recycling them again.
Thanks to Michele Richmond over at Sans Serif for pointing out some of the best writing tips ever. From Frederick Barthelme, The 39 Steps, A Primer on Writing, at the Center for Writers (Mississippi Review) we get such gems as the very first two–which may be my favorite all-time advice:
1) Step one in the great enterprise of a new and preferable you in the house of fiction is: Mean less. That is, don’t mean so much. Make up a story, screw around with it, paste junk on it, needle the characters, make them say queer stuff, go bad places, insert new people at inopportune moments, do some drive-bys. Make it up, please.
2) Don’t let it make too much sense.
I’ve been starting to think this way, and that’s why the onion laughs in one of my most recent pieces.
As a matter of fact, that’s exactly why it laughs.
Watching its approach, feeling inside me the black clouds tumbling over one another as they build into a solid black mass of turmoil. Rumbling low and then closer, louder, with exclamations of lightning streaks to punctuate its dark anger.
I watch in silence. I can only let it speak for me.
Nabokov has Humbert struggling with his conscience in a way consistent with his personality which is that of sardonic acceptance. His description to the reader of his days spent with Lolita runs the gamut of self-justification to disgust, and his presentation is often put forth in saracasm. While he shows a general disdain for the people he meets during their cross-country travel, he also realizes that he is at their mercy should they catch drift of the real relationship between him and his stepdaughter.
Lolita as well is described in many ways as their time together makes him more aware of her childish self centered behavior. Humbert is also very much aware of her knowledge of her power over him, and while he is in control of the situation, he is also very mindful of–and almost enjoys being so–the tenuous grip he holds on his paradise and how hell itself looms into view.
Here, Humbert is taking inventory of the financial toll the year has taken and the changes that has Lolita growing into a young woman–beginning to lose, in a sense, a part of her appeal. But e find something more in his laundry list:
We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires, and her sobs in the night–every night, every night–the moment I feigned sleep. (p. 175)
Humbert obviously was not interested in the countryside that was his freedom, his "paradise." And I’m sure he doesn’t feel guilty about it, especially to the extreme of feeling that he has defiled it. So, what is the country, the space, that he feels he has defiled? Is it the whole of life itself, or mankind?
And we find out two very interesting bits of information here, since we’re totally dependent upon the first person pov of Humbert to give us his version and feelings as he chooses. Why does the toughened Lolita sob in the night, "every night, every night?" Nabokov has heretofore given us a young girl who, while pretty street-smart, was not a very sensitive individual except when is helped her learn how to manipulate others.
And Humbert–feigning sleep? Why, we’re left to wonder.
With so many weblogs and websites devoted to writers and legions of hopeful writers clicking out stories on their keyboards the market is being flooded with bad writing as much as good. It’s a sword that cuts both ways. While the good may finally be encouraged by the ease and less painful and time-consuming methods of getting their work read, they’re finding themselves in amongst an ever-growing ocean of mediocrity as the hitherto impenetrable icebergs of publishing know-how melt away.
Over at Miss Snark’s, an agent who has graciously dedicated much time and knowledge into helping new writers present their best and answer many of their questions regarding the publishing process, there’s currently seventy-five query letters and first page offerings for critique. But something bothers me and I’m starting to zero in on it.
For new writers, it seems the most important thing is to get noticed by the agent and the standards may be very different than what we’d think them to be. Writers need, I think, to think of their audience as the agent–not the ultimate reader–in order to ever get close to being published.
The most common critique that is offered is to get action going within those first 500 words. But these are novels we’re talking about, not necessarily run by the same rules as short story where compression is necessary and narrative is minimal. It sounds as though if there’s a murder, it had better be done by page two at the latest. Without action, you’re dead in the slushpile.
While I would think that crime fiction in particular would benefit from this–as this is what readers are reading it for–I’m not so sure that "hitting the ground running" is a must-do for all story, but rather just one of several techniques. As far as writers are concerned, anyway.
Dracula, by Bram Stoker; that’s got to start off with action, no? It’s one of the best horror novels written. Read Chapter 1: Dracula
Or how about this, from Agatha Christie’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles:
Chapter 1
I Go to Styles
The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as "The Styles Case" has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which still persist.
I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair.
I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending some months in a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a month’s sick leave. Having no near relations or friends, I was trying to make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some years. Indeed, I had never known him particularly well. He was a good fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I had often stayed at Styles, his mother’s place in Essex.
We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to Styles to spend my leave there.
"I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair." Christie herself is announcing that she’s going to give us the backstory first.
(Links to literature from Literature Online–an excellent site where many of the classics can be read in full online.)
I’m beginning to think that while technology has aided the writer tremendously by casting light upon the heretofore mysterious publishing world, it has the ability to change what’s being published as well. Of course, this is only one agent’s preferences, and that’s why many, many must be solicited before that one that happens to love what you happen to write is found. It can be no other way–your agent has to believe in you and vice versa. But with the undergrumbling about the MFA in Creative Writing and Programs and seminars that are beginning to dislodge the creative from creative writing, this knowledge of how to please an agent might have the same effect. No more just galloping off into the sunset; we must now gallop into the dawn.
What may turn the market for better or worse, is that so many writers are misguided into thinking that what they need to learn is how to get published, instead of learning to write.
I’m such a twit. Just to get something submitted for our writing group in, I posted a new story that I’d worked on for a week. However, as I’ve said before, that’s when the necessary improvements come out like stars in the night. While I haven’t been able to keep my fingers off the fix-em-up keys, I’ve managed to keep from reposting through most of the changes.
Then, out of embarrassment for the prior draft, after many, many changes and at the least, a day’s time, I sneak in and upload the latest version.
Of course, since at the critiquing sessions the author isn’t allowed to speak until everyone’s done, I won’t be able to explain why everybody is working with a different version. Or, if I’m feeling guilty enough, I’ll just come clean before it comes up and let them decide if they want to go ahead with it.
First, watch this: Heaven, Earth, Tequila by Douglas Menuez (thanks to Anne at Ample Sanity for the link). It is unbelievably beautiful and moving.
So the question posed to me was, "Can you tell a story with photos alone?"
Of course, I think. Perhaps not me or not me doing it as well as with words, but others can certainly use images alone without the need for language. There have been movies made with just music for audio and flashing images to present story. Cartoons come to mind, strips or even singles without text or dialogue. But the question goes deeper: Is there a story?
Maybe it doesn’t always come through as a traditional linear narrative, but I believe a story is always there. Even better, images leave much to the experiences of the viewer to write the story (Roland, are you there?) and the story will vary greatly. Think of the Mona Lisa. Is she married, a mother? Going down these roads will give us backstory, a past. Why is she sitting there smiling? Is it her home? Why is she happy–and is she really, or is she putting on a show for Da Vinci? Maybe she’s just glad her spaghetti sauce smells so good. And where is her story going from here–to pick up her child from it’s cradle? To boil pasta? Will she be sneaking out to see a lover tomorrow? That’s likely to make her smile today–the now of the image.
Just as text often cannot pin down (and more often, shouldn’t try) appearances to allow the reader to dredge up his own imagined visuals from experience and memory, images leave enough mystery and opportunity to develop different paths of story.
While on the one hand I’m anxious to add images and audio (whether spoken or musical) to enhance story, I need to learn the balance of the mediums (as well as the software!) so that each movement, each word or phrase, each action is not only served best by one or a combination of senses, but that there is still plenty left for the reader/viewer to write for himself.
Great opportunity to learn from an expert: Write A Novel. There are 18 downloadable sections that cover the basics through the nuances and end happily at "Reading the Contract."
Published author and teacher Crawford Killian is offering this online guide to writing and I know that I for one am going to take advantage of his own efforts and experience. Crof has many weblogs going, and I’m a regular reader of Writing Fiction.
It almost seems sacrilegious to have Nabokov’s language come out of Humbert Humbert.
A visit to a plausible cove on the Atlantic side was completely messed up by foul weather. A thick damp sky, muddy waves, a sense of boundless but somehow matter-of-fact mist–what could be further removed from the crisp charm, the sapphire occasion and rosy contingency of my Riviera romance? (p. 167)
Humbert is discovering the reason why twelve year-olds make lousy lovers. Lolita’s childish nature is one of self-absorption. The clothes he researched and bought her don’t fit. She’s tired of being contained in motels. She wants comic books and candy, and sex is just a game she plays as she comes into learning about her power over boys, over Humbert.
They travel through the states crossing borders, entering new states that signify more than locations, but the state of the relationship as it changes.
The very idea of Lolita’s not being a virgin seems to make Humbert even more pathetic. The borders he intended to respect have already been breached. There is indeed a line drawn on morality, and Humbert does his best to convince us that he walks that line, but even he has his doubts.
Dark and every shade of grey in pillows and wrinkled sheets, tumbling eastward. They feel just like my insides and I try to find their heart.
Fourteen skeins of yarn from Alice, my husband’s mother, gone now twenty years. Cleaning out yet another house and saving what stirs up memories. I’ll make them into a sweater to keep the clouds inside inside.
Knitting. I can do that.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology