She was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. Sense and Sensibility, chapter 3
Alas, circumstances change and one must move on, as Mrs. Dashwood discovered. Leaving fond memories behind, she packed up her three daughters and her possessions, and embarked on a new chapter of her life. The time has come for me to do the same. I've packed my books and phrases, and said farewell to Heatheridge House in Bloggerland, removing to a suitable new dwelling in the neighborhood of Wordpress. My new abode (found at http://shannonwinslow.wordpress.com) is named "Jane Austen Says..." I hope you will call on me there at your earliest convenience; I shall be delighted to receive visitors at any hour, you know. Should I chance to be out when you come, please do be sure to leave your card.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Care to Take a Turn?
"I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner." (Pride and Prejudice, chapter 7)
With blizzards about to bury the mid-west in a couple feet of snow, I'm feeling pretty lucky to be living in the northwest. This morning was absolutely beautiful - cold, crackling crisp, but clear. Still, the winter sun traces a low arc in the sky this far north, and it drops behind the trees alarmingly early in the afternoon. So, I wasted no time. I put on my hiking boots (for, like Elizabeth Bennet, I knew I would have a great deal of mud to contend with) and went for a long walk. In the incident quoted above, Elizabeth was anxious to see her sick sister Jane, who was at Netherfield. My motive was just to get some fresh air and exercise.
Jane Austen used a person's activity level as a clue to his/her character when telling her stories. She made her favorites lively and energetic, while those out of favor often demonstrated more indolent habits (think Elizabeth versus Mr. Hurst). The fact that she expected her heroines, as well as her heroes, to be physically active, puts her ahead of her time since fine ladies of her day were not generally encouraged to much exert themselves. Elizabeth's walk to Netherfield surprises her family and positively shocks Mr. Bingley's sisters.
That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. ...Mr. Darcy was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone.
I didn't have to worry about public censure when I hiked my three miles this morning. If anything, I'm in danger of being chastised by my doctor for not exercising often enough. Writing is a very sedentary occupation. But I inevitably find that getting the blood moving allows the words to flow more freely too, and a brisk turn out of doors is the best cure for writer's block I've yet discovered.
With blizzards about to bury the mid-west in a couple feet of snow, I'm feeling pretty lucky to be living in the northwest. This morning was absolutely beautiful - cold, crackling crisp, but clear. Still, the winter sun traces a low arc in the sky this far north, and it drops behind the trees alarmingly early in the afternoon. So, I wasted no time. I put on my hiking boots (for, like Elizabeth Bennet, I knew I would have a great deal of mud to contend with) and went for a long walk. In the incident quoted above, Elizabeth was anxious to see her sick sister Jane, who was at Netherfield. My motive was just to get some fresh air and exercise.
Jane Austen used a person's activity level as a clue to his/her character when telling her stories. She made her favorites lively and energetic, while those out of favor often demonstrated more indolent habits (think Elizabeth versus Mr. Hurst). The fact that she expected her heroines, as well as her heroes, to be physically active, puts her ahead of her time since fine ladies of her day were not generally encouraged to much exert themselves. Elizabeth's walk to Netherfield surprises her family and positively shocks Mr. Bingley's sisters.
That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. ...Mr. Darcy was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone.
I didn't have to worry about public censure when I hiked my three miles this morning. If anything, I'm in danger of being chastised by my doctor for not exercising often enough. Writing is a very sedentary occupation. But I inevitably find that getting the blood moving allows the words to flow more freely too, and a brisk turn out of doors is the best cure for writer's block I've yet discovered.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
The Stories of Christmas
"This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas everybody invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter." (Emma, chapter 13)
This is an excerpt of Mr. Elton's rapturous remarks in anticipation of the holiday party at the Westons'. We may not like Mr. Elton in general. But, on this occasion, he has the right idea and certainly a better attitude than Mr. John Knightly about venturing out in the snow to accept the generous hospitality of friends (see blog post 7/19/10 entitled Leaving One's Own Fireside). My family experienced no weather complications this Christmas. Our "friendly meetings" went ahead as planned, with me taking my turn both as hostess and as invited guest.
When I thought about drawing a writing-related principle from these holiday gatherings, it occur ed to me how many instances of story telling had transpired over the last few days. My mother announced she's begun recording an account of her life growing up. My husband shared an anecdote, something that happened to him years ago. My cousin, who has a passion for genealogy, displayed a restored photo of our mutual great great grandparents, telling what she's learned about their life long ago in Norway. I read the Christmas story to my two-year-old granddaughter from a children's Bible. My mother-in-law gave me two paperback novels, ones she enjoyed herself. Laughing aloud, my son viewed video of friends playing party games, as recorded on my daughter-in-law's cell phone.
It's all story-telling. Through one medium or another (ancient oral traditions to electronic-age technologies), it's been a part of human existence since the beginning. Passing along practical knowledge and hard-won life experience can be viewed purely as a species survival skill. But what of memoir, humor, and all forms of fiction? Do they play an important role in our survival as well? Is that why we have an innate drive to share these forms of communication too? I don't have the answers. I only know that the tapestries of our lives would be less richly textured without them.
Blessings to each of you this Christmas. May you celebrate this special day with your friends about you and with wonderful stories to tell.
This is an excerpt of Mr. Elton's rapturous remarks in anticipation of the holiday party at the Westons'. We may not like Mr. Elton in general. But, on this occasion, he has the right idea and certainly a better attitude than Mr. John Knightly about venturing out in the snow to accept the generous hospitality of friends (see blog post 7/19/10 entitled Leaving One's Own Fireside). My family experienced no weather complications this Christmas. Our "friendly meetings" went ahead as planned, with me taking my turn both as hostess and as invited guest.
When I thought about drawing a writing-related principle from these holiday gatherings, it occur ed to me how many instances of story telling had transpired over the last few days. My mother announced she's begun recording an account of her life growing up. My husband shared an anecdote, something that happened to him years ago. My cousin, who has a passion for genealogy, displayed a restored photo of our mutual great great grandparents, telling what she's learned about their life long ago in Norway. I read the Christmas story to my two-year-old granddaughter from a children's Bible. My mother-in-law gave me two paperback novels, ones she enjoyed herself. Laughing aloud, my son viewed video of friends playing party games, as recorded on my daughter-in-law's cell phone.
It's all story-telling. Through one medium or another (ancient oral traditions to electronic-age technologies), it's been a part of human existence since the beginning. Passing along practical knowledge and hard-won life experience can be viewed purely as a species survival skill. But what of memoir, humor, and all forms of fiction? Do they play an important role in our survival as well? Is that why we have an innate drive to share these forms of communication too? I don't have the answers. I only know that the tapestries of our lives would be less richly textured without them.
Blessings to each of you this Christmas. May you celebrate this special day with your friends about you and with wonderful stories to tell.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Call to Adventure
No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be a heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally against her. ...But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way. (Northanger Abbey, chapter 1)
Between the first and second portions of the quote above, Jane Austen tell us that Catherine is neither clever nor accomplished. Although she is allowed to look "almost pretty" on her best days, by no stretch of the imagination can she be considered beautiful. Toward the cause of heroism, the neighborhood is as disobliging as Catherine's personal traits, refusing to offer her even "one amiable youth who could call forth her sensibility" or inspire "one real passion." No noblemen about (not even a baronet), no squire's son, no foundling boy, no ward of her father, no intriguing young man of unknown origin.
Austen must have had great fun writing this passage; it's filled with her wittiest humor. But so far there's no story, only setup. This is the "before" snapshot. Then, as the author tells us up front, "something must and will happen" to change the picture: an inciting incident, a catalyst, a call to adventure. This is a basic element of story structure, whether you're writing romance or techno-thrillers, light-hearted comedy or literary tragedy. Catherine's catalyst comes in the form of an invitation to accompany the Allens to Bath.
In my novel For Myself Alone, I used the same setup (an unlikely heroine). Josephine Walker tell us: When I came out into society - my debut upon the larger world - the world was generally unimpressed. Oh, my height does give my figure a certain degree of elegance and my hazel eyes are often complimented, but I believe the consensus at the time was that my looks did not much exceed the average. The young men of my acquaintance were apparently of the same opinion, since I noticed they withstood my modest beauty with remarkable ease.
Jo's adventure also includes a trip to Bath. In her case, though, receiving an inheritance of twenty thousand pounds is actually the inciting incident, the event that changes everything, the moment her life turns upside-down. In her words: As my new-found virtue - my large personal fortune - became know, my status among my peers and betters underwent a dramatic alteration. ...my faults and deficiencies quickly diminished into insignificance, and my society was soon industriously sought by some of the same young men who were so recently too squeamish to bear it.
Events propel both Josephine and Catherine into unfamiliar new worlds, and we get to go along for the rough ride ahead. In theory, their stories could be told without these defining moments of change (if Catherine had lived in Bath all her life; if Josephine had been born rich). But a catalyst, by definition, increases the rate of a chemical reaction. Isn't that what we want in our novels?
Between the first and second portions of the quote above, Jane Austen tell us that Catherine is neither clever nor accomplished. Although she is allowed to look "almost pretty" on her best days, by no stretch of the imagination can she be considered beautiful. Toward the cause of heroism, the neighborhood is as disobliging as Catherine's personal traits, refusing to offer her even "one amiable youth who could call forth her sensibility" or inspire "one real passion." No noblemen about (not even a baronet), no squire's son, no foundling boy, no ward of her father, no intriguing young man of unknown origin.
Austen must have had great fun writing this passage; it's filled with her wittiest humor. But so far there's no story, only setup. This is the "before" snapshot. Then, as the author tells us up front, "something must and will happen" to change the picture: an inciting incident, a catalyst, a call to adventure. This is a basic element of story structure, whether you're writing romance or techno-thrillers, light-hearted comedy or literary tragedy. Catherine's catalyst comes in the form of an invitation to accompany the Allens to Bath.
In my novel For Myself Alone, I used the same setup (an unlikely heroine). Josephine Walker tell us: When I came out into society - my debut upon the larger world - the world was generally unimpressed. Oh, my height does give my figure a certain degree of elegance and my hazel eyes are often complimented, but I believe the consensus at the time was that my looks did not much exceed the average. The young men of my acquaintance were apparently of the same opinion, since I noticed they withstood my modest beauty with remarkable ease.
Jo's adventure also includes a trip to Bath. In her case, though, receiving an inheritance of twenty thousand pounds is actually the inciting incident, the event that changes everything, the moment her life turns upside-down. In her words: As my new-found virtue - my large personal fortune - became know, my status among my peers and betters underwent a dramatic alteration. ...my faults and deficiencies quickly diminished into insignificance, and my society was soon industriously sought by some of the same young men who were so recently too squeamish to bear it.
Events propel both Josephine and Catherine into unfamiliar new worlds, and we get to go along for the rough ride ahead. In theory, their stories could be told without these defining moments of change (if Catherine had lived in Bath all her life; if Josephine had been born rich). But a catalyst, by definition, increases the rate of a chemical reaction. Isn't that what we want in our novels?
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Any Other Place
"Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more precious and delightful than the day before! - every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!" (Frank Churchill, Emma, chapter 30)
Along with compelling characters, a good writer also delivers an engaging setting. It grounds the story by planting its people and events in a specific time and place. It gives the reader a world to escape to and explore. Tara, Pemberley, Mitford, even the Planet of the Apes: these names evoke strong images. We experienced them first through the pages of books.
Setting doesn't require exhaustive, flowery descriptions of landscape, architecture, and furnishings. Preferably not. Jane Austen never resorted to that technique. She gave us just enough information to set our imaginations off in the right direction. The rest unfolded primarily through the kind of people who inhabited her houses and villages, the way they behaved (or misbehaved), and how they felt about where they lived and visited. For example...
It was a handsome, stone building, standing well on rising ground and backed by a ridge of high woody hills ... Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste ... The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine ...
Our opinion of Pemberley is influenced more by Elizabeth's impressions and the high regard the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, has for her position and her employer than by direct description of what the place looks like. The same is true for Highbury in Emma. I don't recall any of the specific facts Austen surely gives us about the town, only that everyone (even a recent arrival like Frank Churchill) speaks of the village with affection.
How magical, then, to create fictitious worlds of our own! As writers, we fashion them brick by brick, laboring until we can taste the dust of the streets, smell the pile of horse manure we sidestep, and exchange greetings with the other inhabitants - our good friends - as they go about their business. We come to delight in our daily sojourns there ... perhaps a little too much. The downside? The deeper we immerse ourselves in a beloved book (as readers, and especially as writers) the more attached we become to the neighborhood. Perhaps, as Frank says, this makes us less and less fit to bear any other place ... such as the real world.
Along with compelling characters, a good writer also delivers an engaging setting. It grounds the story by planting its people and events in a specific time and place. It gives the reader a world to escape to and explore. Tara, Pemberley, Mitford, even the Planet of the Apes: these names evoke strong images. We experienced them first through the pages of books.
Setting doesn't require exhaustive, flowery descriptions of landscape, architecture, and furnishings. Preferably not. Jane Austen never resorted to that technique. She gave us just enough information to set our imaginations off in the right direction. The rest unfolded primarily through the kind of people who inhabited her houses and villages, the way they behaved (or misbehaved), and how they felt about where they lived and visited. For example...
It was a handsome, stone building, standing well on rising ground and backed by a ridge of high woody hills ... Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste ... The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine ...
Our opinion of Pemberley is influenced more by Elizabeth's impressions and the high regard the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, has for her position and her employer than by direct description of what the place looks like. The same is true for Highbury in Emma. I don't recall any of the specific facts Austen surely gives us about the town, only that everyone (even a recent arrival like Frank Churchill) speaks of the village with affection.
How magical, then, to create fictitious worlds of our own! As writers, we fashion them brick by brick, laboring until we can taste the dust of the streets, smell the pile of horse manure we sidestep, and exchange greetings with the other inhabitants - our good friends - as they go about their business. We come to delight in our daily sojourns there ... perhaps a little too much. The downside? The deeper we immerse ourselves in a beloved book (as readers, and especially as writers) the more attached we become to the neighborhood. Perhaps, as Frank says, this makes us less and less fit to bear any other place ... such as the real world.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Close Relations
"I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family. The far and near must be relative, and depend on many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expense of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil." (Pride and Prejudice, chapter 32)
Elizabeth says this to Mr. Darcy after he implies that fifty miles distant is a very agreeable place to keep one's family. No doubt, he was already thinking of carrying Lizzy off to Pemberley (shown above is Hampton Court Palace, the closest thing I have to Pemberley) and away from her most uncouth relations. I echoed the sentiment in The Darcys of Pemberley when Jane and Mr. Bingley announce their intentions to move away from Hertfordshire: Although he did not say the words, his meaning was clear enough. They could all appreciate the idea that it is possible for a woman to be settled too near her family. This was to fulfill what Jane Austen tells us in the last chapter about their future:
Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to his easy temper and her affectionate heart. The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighboring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were withing thirty miles of each other.
I concur with Elizabeth's statement above. It depends entirely on the circumstances. Had I a mother like hers, fifty miles would be a bare minimum. I am more fortunate, though. I have always enjoyed the support of close family, especially when I was a clueless young mother. Now it is my turn to be there for ageing parents and busy adult children with children of their own. My husband and I have talked about how wonderful it would be to retire to someplace with endless sunshine, surf, and sandy beaches. But, since we don't have a "fortune" to constantly travel back and forth whenever mood or need arises, the distance for us would be an evil impossible to overcome. Elizabeth had no such limitations. She ended living in a bit of paradise with her favorite sister close by and means to travel at will. The best of both worlds.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Older But Wiser
Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and ... voluntarily to give her hand to another! ... But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting ... she found herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village ... Marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband as it had once been to Willoughby. (Sense and Sensibility, chapter 50)
I love this insightful account of the revolution in Marianne's character throughout the course of the story. In the beginning, she is ruled by her feelings alone. Without a single scruple she throws caution (and propriety) to the wind ... and herself into Willoughby's arms, taking her romantic sensibilities so far that she cannot imagine going on without him. By the end, she has, through painful experience, gained a more balanced perspective and a measure of common sense. She's learned that her sister's more conservative approach to life may have some merit after all. She also ultimately discovers it is possible to love again, and that the second, though different, may be just as satisfying (and far more enduring) than the first.
I've always identified more like Elinor - sensible, steady, doing what's right. But, if I look back to my early teens, I realize I may have started out much more like Marianne than I care to admit - overly romantic (something I probably haven't completely outgrow, to tell the truth) and prone to melodrama. After all, Romeo and Juliet was my first movie obsession (and Leonard Whiting my first crush - anyone else with me?) Like Marianne, I wallowed in the misery of my first heartbreak for months. Fortunately, I too lived to love again.
So, who is your role model -Elinor or Marianne? And would you choose the dashing Willoughby or Col. Brandon, "the very best of men"? Tough decision, probably because we tend to want it all. We'd like to think we are both smart and emotionally deep; and our ideal man would embody all the best of both Willoughby and Brandon.
I love this insightful account of the revolution in Marianne's character throughout the course of the story. In the beginning, she is ruled by her feelings alone. Without a single scruple she throws caution (and propriety) to the wind ... and herself into Willoughby's arms, taking her romantic sensibilities so far that she cannot imagine going on without him. By the end, she has, through painful experience, gained a more balanced perspective and a measure of common sense. She's learned that her sister's more conservative approach to life may have some merit after all. She also ultimately discovers it is possible to love again, and that the second, though different, may be just as satisfying (and far more enduring) than the first.
I've always identified more like Elinor - sensible, steady, doing what's right. But, if I look back to my early teens, I realize I may have started out much more like Marianne than I care to admit - overly romantic (something I probably haven't completely outgrow, to tell the truth) and prone to melodrama. After all, Romeo and Juliet was my first movie obsession (and Leonard Whiting my first crush - anyone else with me?) Like Marianne, I wallowed in the misery of my first heartbreak for months. Fortunately, I too lived to love again.
So, who is your role model -Elinor or Marianne? And would you choose the dashing Willoughby or Col. Brandon, "the very best of men"? Tough decision, probably because we tend to want it all. We'd like to think we are both smart and emotionally deep; and our ideal man would embody all the best of both Willoughby and Brandon.
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