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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Good Company

"My idea of good company, Mr. Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company." "You are mistaken ... that is not good company; that is the best. Good company requires only birth, education and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice." Persuasion, chapter 16

This conversation takes place between Anne Elliot and her cousin Mr. Elliot as a result of Anne's disgust over the extreme deference shown to Lady Dalrymple (a viscountess) and her daughter. We are told that the women in question possess no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding deserving special attention, and that their presence would be barely tolerated (let alone their favor curried) but for their rank.

In theory at least, most of us would probably agree with Anne that a person's value should be based on something more substantial than an accident of birth. In the US, we may pride ourselves on our supposedly "class-free" society, feel superior for our democratic constitution which states that "all men are created equal" (even though, when those words were penned, "all" didn't include women or minority races). And, of course, the system of government in the UK has evolved in the past two hundred years as well. Power is no longer exclusively in the purview of white, male land-owners.

Yet, have you noticed that if we don't have a system of aristocracy already in place, we tend to create one? We elevate people to celebrity status (movie, TV, music, and sports stars, along with other rich and famous), we pay them outrageous sums of money, and then treat them with the same special deference Lady Dalrymple enjoyed. Celebrity watching (our American version of royal watching) has achieved cult status. If you don't believe me, check "the news" on your Internet home page. I bet you'll find it's at least two-thirds gossip about what star is dating what other star, who's showing off her bikini bod or baby bump, and how some mighty person has fallen from grace.

I'm reminded of a line in the prologue to my novel The Darcys of Pemberley. Considering that the Bennets, as the most prominent family in the area, were celebrities of sorts, it fits: Developments in the Bennet family and amongst their connections always provide a fertile source of conversation for those in the neighborhood whose own lives hold little excitement and few distinctions to celebrate.

We say we believe in equality, but we don't always behave that way. I guess that means we're a bit hypocritical, Jane Austen (my favorite celebrity) included. Her stories rail against the unfair plight of her heroines - usually well-bred young women discriminated against for their lack of fortune - as if rank and financial status shouldn't matter. Yet she sheds no tears for the servants who make the gentry's lifestyle possible, and sees to it that most of her heroines marry rich men! Not a criticism; just an observation. In truth, I don't want to read (or write) stories about true poverty and misery. There's plenty of that in real life. I'll admit it; I, like Jane Austen, prefer the a fairy tale ending.

The Indignities of a Heat Wave

What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps one in a continual state of inelegance.

So wrote Jane Austen in a letter - a bit of simple wisdom as true now as it was when she set it down on paper two hundred years ago. On second thought, perhaps it was truer then since baths were few and far between. No running water, hot or cold. Every gallon needed for a bath had to be heated on the kitchen stove and hauled up two flights of stairs. Afterward, one couldn't simply pull the plug and let the tub drain either. Presumably, the water had to be scooped out and hauled back down (or maybe they bailed it out the window!).

When I found the quote above, it reminded me of a line from my first novel - the sequel to Pride and Prejudice titled The Darcys of Pemberley. Add the barnyard smell of hundreds of horses and other animals to thousands of overly fragrant people, pack them all close together, and turn up the heat. That was London in the dog days of summer. I suppose the sewage ran straight into the Thames too. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?

The simmering heat only served to intensify the more unpleasant aspects of living in close quarters with so much humanity and horseflesh. If one dared open the windows in hopes of some relief from the stifling air indoors, one quickly closed them again against the noise and odors emanating from the streets. For those who had the option of somewhere else to go, the advent of such conditions began turning thoughts toward getting out of town ...

For this reason, among others, I would have preferred retreating to the quiet and fresh air of the country, as did the Darcys. But then, if you owned the finest estate in Derbyshire, why would you want to be anywhere else?

The Pleasure of a Good Novel

"The person ... who has not pleasure in a good novel must be intolerably stupid. I have read Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again. I remember finishing it in two days, my hair standing on end the whole time." (Henry Tilney, Northanger Abbey)

Is this Jane Austen's way of tooting her own horn? Sure, but it's probably her honest opinion as well. She and her family were enthusiastic novel readers, and, according to one of her preserved letters, "not ashamed of being so." The idea of being ashamed to admit reading novels sounds absurd. In Austen's day, however, when that literary form was in it's infancy, the novel did not yet enjoy wide social acceptance. Plays and poetry were considered more the thing. Shakespeare, probably the most revered English author of all time, never wrote a novel, after all.

Because of the above reference in Northanger Abbey, I became curious about The Mysteries of Udolpho. It's a real book, one Jane Austen read. Much to my surprise, I discovered it available through my local public library. I checked it out and read it. It took me at least a couple weeks (not two days like Henry Tilney), and I didn't feel my hair standing on end even once, which was a disappointment. Tame by today's standards and painfully long-winded. Wordy. Isn't it somehow ironic to accuse a book of having too many words? Yet it's a common criticism of "the classics." Even in Jane Austen, who was not as given to exhaustive descriptions as most, you can find enormously long paragraphs and speeches compared to the soundbites we're used to now.

That older style isn't inferior; it was appropriate for the time. When books were one of the few sources of entertainment, I imagine readers wanted their treasured novel to last as long as possible. Precise, detailed descriptions were a plus for anyone not able to easily visualize other times, places, and social strata by simply turning on a television. Add the fact that writers (Dickens, for instance, with his serialized works) were sometimes paid by the word and the phenomenon is explained.

Nowadays, we have a lot to choose from, dozens of different mediums competing for our entertainment time and dollar. But I hope the novel never goes out of style (and not just because I write them). Come on, people! Turn off your digital devices and pick up something that's stood the test of time: a good, honest read. Be reminded how reassuring the weight of a book feels in your hand, how satisfying it is to turn the pages one by one. Don't be "intolerably stupid." Read a novel!

A Genteel Profession

"It has been, and is, and probably will always be a heavy misfortune to me that I have had no necessary business to engage me, no profession to give me employment or afford me any thing like independence ... I always preferred the church, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family. They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men who had chambers in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs." (Edward Ferrars, Sense and Sensibility)

Every Jane Austen novel reminds us of the severe limitations placed on females of genteel birth in her era. Their only honorable profession was becoming some gentleman's wife. Although the men seem to have drawn a far better lot in general, their options were also restricted by social convention. As outlined above, if a young gentleman needed an occupation, he could go into the church, the army, or the law. Those were the three standard choices.

"But," you say, "I thought the mark of a gentleman was having no profession."

Well, not exactly. Younger sons absolutely needed a profession; they had to earn their living. The eldest would, of course, inherit the family estate when his father died, giving him some occupation thereafter. But what was he to do in the meantime? Too much free time got more than one heir presumptive into trouble. Edward, in hindsight, recognized that his foolish involvement with Lucy Steele sprang from his idleness. And Thomas Bertram (Mansfield Park) gambled his father's money away while waiting to come into his property.

Better give that boy something to do. Joining the clergy was acceptable, but not stylish. A military life held more prestige, but also more danger (Napoleon and all). So, perhaps the law? Fine, but then he must be a swanky London barrister, and not (heaven forbid!) a humble country attorney like Lizzy's uncle Phillips in Pride and Prejudice, who was considered one of her "low connections".

To become a lawyer didn't involve the years of intense study and rigorous exams you might imagine. One had to first acquire a standard degree (from Oxford, Cambridge, or Trinity), which hardly required breaking a sweat, before moving on to "study" at one of London's Inns of Court (Temple, as mentioned by Edward, for example). There his progress was measured according to how often he dined on the premises (I'm not kidding) rather than by successfully completing courses. What a student actually learned during his "terms" was largely left up to him. If he paid attention in court and read the recommended books, he might come away with some level of competency to go along with his certificate. If not ... well?

Although I'm no expert, from what I've read, the haphazard education of lawyers seems only a symptom of a much larger malaise afflicting the legal system that existed at the time. Jo Walker (heroine of my book For Myself Alone) has this to say about it:

"The quality of Mr. Gerber's advice notwithstanding, I come away from my first encounter with the legal system scarcely less ignorant than when I began. The little which I could understand, however, appears to contradict the very few notions I had entertained on the matter before. As it turns out, the law has only a nodding acquaintance with justice and an even more tenuous association with common sense."

Though still a flawed institution, I trust we've improved since then.

Rational Creatures

"I hate to hear you talking so ... as if women were all fine ladies instead of rational creatures." (Mrs. Croft to her brother, Frederick Wentworth, in chapter 8 of Persuasion)

Although Jane Austen may not seem progressive to a modern audience, certain aspects of her stories would have been considered downright revolutionary in her day. Nothing more so than her depiction of women as "rational creatures." Not that she didn't also write female characters who little deserved the title. But, by and large, the women who inspired the love of her heroes and earned the devotion of her readers (then and now) are those who were well read, intelligent, and possessed a good deal of common sense.

What's revolutionary about that? In Jane Austen's day, women were not only non-persons legally and socially (except as extensions of their fathers or husbands), they were generally considered vastly inferior creatures unworthy of higher education and incapable of higher thought. So, to call a woman rational was a clear contradiction in terms. To insist that she had the same capacity for reason as a man was a strongly feminist and highly controversial stand.

Jane Austen was no political activist. She didn't protest in front of the Parliament building or burn her corset in the town square. Her novels rarely even alluded to world events or governmental affairs. She instead made her case for recognizing the rationality of women with subtle strokes of her pen. Her strong female characters and her respected body of work speak volumes for her.

Polluted Shades

"Heaven and earth! - of what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pelmberley to be thus polluted?"

Did you know that pollution is not a problem exclusively of the modern era. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, as you see from her statement above (Pride and Prejudice, chapter 56), was concerned about its noxious effects even in the early 1800s, when she "lived." Of course the pollution she railed against was the contamination of noble realms by unworthy personages such as Elizabeth Bennet's low connections. In her eyes, the shortest visit of one of these at Pemberley would have left a stain on its woods that no amount of time could ever erase.

Lady Catherine is one of those delightful villains that we love so much to hate. She's also a writer's dream. Just like actors often report that wicked characters are more fun to play than the nice ones, villains are often more enjoyable to write for too. Even though I avoid confrontation in real life, I love to write that kind of scene. Think about the contest of wits between Lizzy and her ladyship that included the line quoted above. Lady Catherine creates conflict and confrontation wherever she goes, so I was thrilled to give her a prominent role in the Darcys of Pemberley, my sequel to Pride and Prejudice. I began with Jane Austen's final chapter as my jumping-off point, studying it carefully for clues to what she saw in her characters' futures and carefully respecting those ideas. This is what we learn there about Lady Catherine:

Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character, in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received ...

I used Jane Austen's own words as the guide for all the characters, contradicting nothing she wrote in her epilogue. She left me plenty of good material to work with while not boxing me in too tight. So, I made the most of Lady Catherine's nasty disposition and aristocratic snobbery before finally humbling her into accepting the new mistress of Pemberley:

News soon spread throughout the neighborhood that there would be nobility coming amongst them, and the watch began for a very fine closed carriage - a barouche with coat of arms it was rumored to be - which would convey Lady Catherine de Bourgh to Pemberley. When the great lady was assured that the place was free of riffraff, she did come, bringing her daughter and son-in-law with her for the event. Her previous visit having been long before the current Mrs. Darcy presided, she keenly anticipated finding a serious decline in the dignity and polish of the grand estate under the new management. However, though she scrutinized the house and grounds down to the minutest detail, all her efforts were frustrated; Pemberley was just as fine as it had ever been when her own sister was its mistress.

I can well imagine how much Jane Austen enjoyed giving Lady Catherine a good set down (by way of Elizabeth's mouth), for I took equal pleasure making sure she got her comeuppance in my story.

The Pump-room

Every morning now brought its regular duties - shops were to be visited; some new part of the town to be looked at; and the Pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking to no one.

This passage describes Catherine Morland's early days in Bath (chapter 3 of Northanger Abbey). She was on a grand adventure, leaving her quiet village to sample the delights of a fashionable spa town as the particular guest of the Morlands' wealthy neighbors, the Allens. The only flaw in the pleasure scheme was their lack of acquaintance in Bath. Mrs. Allen, as you may recall, continually bemoans that circumstance. It was no trivial complaint either, since one couldn't talk to (let alone dance with) a person until one had been properly introduced. Hence, the above comment about looking at everybody and speaking to no one.

Because of its place in both Jane Austen's writings (Northanger Abbey and Persuasion) and in her real life (having lived there herself for a time), I couldn't wait to go to Bath when I was in England two years ago. Although my visit was all too brief, I took in as much as I could, particularly wanting to see locations mentioned in her two books and to get a feel for the town, since I was setting my own novel (For Myself Alone) partially there. The Pump-room features prominently in both. At the heart of the community, it was the place to see and been seen, and to discover who else was currently in residence. Whether one was in town for health or holiday, the Pump-room had to be attended.

In For Myself Alone, my heroine, Josephine Walker, gives her impressions of the Pump-room: Crowds of fashionable people pass daily through its portals seeking the healing waters and the company of their peers. Reputedly, so many valuable acquaintances are renewed and favorable alliances formed within its hallowed walls that each visit holds as much promise for social as medicinal advantage. Thus, with high expectations, we joined the throng of pilgrims drawn to the Pump-room. As Papa bathed in the warm, spring-fed pool below, Mama and I filled our time by parading up and down the main room in concert with all the others similarly left with no more-useful employment. The scale of the place gave even this ordinary exercise a feeling of grandeur.

Other than the fact that it's now set up for serving high tea, the room has not changed much since Jane Austen trod the floors two hundred years ago. It was a thrill to walk the same polished hard woods and sample the same foul-smelling water water from the King's Fountain as she did then. So remember, if you get to Bath, you simply must attend the Pump-room too.

A Charming Rake

"The gentleman offered his services, and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without further delay and carried her down the hill."

Willoughby, oh Willoughby. Such a dashing rake. No wonder Marianne falls for him in Sense and Sensibility. First, he comes to her rescue when she twists her ankle. Next, he is discovered to be graceful, uncommonly handsome, and well-spoken. In the eyes of his female admirers, Sir John's assessment of him (a decent shot, a bold rider, possessing a fine pointer as well as very pretty property) does nothing to detract from his other charms. The added intelligence that Mr. W is a tireless dancer, a talented musician, and an enthusiastic reader seals the deal. He is exactly the sort of gentleman capable of attaching Marianne's affections ... and he does so effortlessly.

In the early chapters, the reader's only hint that Willoughby may not be so perfect after all is his open contempt for Colonel Brandon. "Brandon is just the kind of man ... whom everybody speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to." His words serve as no warning for Marianne, however, since she feels the same way - a clue to her own shortcomings. Of Brandon she declares, "... he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit." Elinor objects to their cooperative character assassination, and Willoughby offers the following explanation:

"I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon: he has threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle; and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told that I believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever."

Well, at least he has good reasons for his prejudice. Thinking of the '95 acclaimed production, where Greg Wise whirls Kate Winslet around as he delivers a close approximation of this speech, I daresay I would have been convinced as well. I liked the above quote so much, in fact, that I included a portion of it in my second book, For Myself Alone - one of the many Jane Austen lines I managed to slip into the text. This time, it's a father disparaging the worth of his potential son-in-law:

"Upon my honor, Josephine, I had hoped to see you do better for yourself as to fortune. A man of some little property would have suited my ambitions very well. Mr. Arthur Evensong may prove a great success in the end, but as of this moment I have seen very little evidence of his genius. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told that I believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it ..."

We can't always explain our gut-level dislike for someone, but we would fight to defend our right to our opinion, however irrational. In Willoughby's case, though, his instinctive antagonism toward the colonel is not totally misplaced, just premature, since the worthier Brandon gets the lady they both love in the end.

Leaving One's Own Fireside

"A man must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow ... Here we are setting forward to spend five dull hours in another man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be heard again tomorrow. Going in dismal weather to return probably in worse - four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home."

What a daunting indictment of hospitality! It's enough to make anyone think twice before sending out invitations. This statement, from Emma, is made by Mr. John Knightley in complaint of having to leave the warm fireside at Hartfield and travel through snow to a Christmas party at the Westons'. For this man, the glass is definitely half (or even three-quarters) empty! His lengthy diatribe, which I have taken the liberty of abbreviating, proves the character Jane Austen has already described for us: he's not altogether ill-tempered, but sometimes out of humor, sometimes acting ungraciously, and capable of saying a severe thing.

Part of the problem, of course, was purely logistical. Traveling to an evening party in those days was not a simple undertaking - no paved roads, no cars with headlights and heated leather seats. As mentioned, getting to the Westons' involved a cold carriage with horses and servants to operate it. And the party would have had to be scheduled (as all evening balls and parties were then) for a night with a tolerably good moon so they could find their way after dark. These things were taken as a matter of course by everybody except the guy with the bad attitude.

I suspect there's a little bit of Mr. John Knightly in me. He's far too harsh, but I can relate to some of what he says. I'm basically a homebody, not a party animal. Although I know I'll probably enjoy myself once I arrive at the gathering, my natural tendencies tempt me to forgo the inconvenience of going out and stay comfortably in front of my own fireside. Especially if I am tired, the idea of curling up with a thick book or a good movie may sound more appealing at that moment. Making the extra effort is worth it, however. And, lest I be omitted from all future guest lists, let me be clear. I appreciate any invitation as a sign of favor and of generous hospitality, not (as Mr. John Knightly does) as proof that the host has too high an opinion of himself.

A Well-Writen Letter

"Let us never underestimate the power of a well-written letter."

Okay, so I hear you JA aficionados saying, "Hey, where did she dig up that line?" And you're right; it is not strictly a Jane Austen quote. But it certainly could have been. She must have subscribed to this policy (as I do) because she often allowed her characters to explain themselves and express their innermost feelings in letter form. Perhaps it's a holdover from the epistle prose that had been popular before the advent of the true novel. In one of her lesser-known works, Lady Susan, Austen used this format herself, telling the story entirely through letters exchanged by a handful of interrelated people.

The line above is actually taken from the movie The Jane Austen Book Club and is said in reference to arguably the most compelling letter composed by one of her characters: the culminating note left by Captain Wentworth for Anne Elliot near the end of Persuasion. Although they had fallen in love when they first met, Anne had been forcefully "persuaded" by her family to reject the captain's proposal. Now, years later, they have a second chance.

"...You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been; weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant..."

Did I hear a collective sigh, ladies? Was there ever a more poignant plea for the ultimate consummation of long-thwarted love? I think not.

Truth in Irony

"A woman especially, if she have the misfortune to know anything, should conceal it as well as she can."

This well-known line is taken from Northanger Abbey, the narrator's response to Catherine Morland's admission that she knows little about what is thought to constitute a picturesque view. The author points out that Catherine needn't be ashamed of her ignorance, that it's actually an advantage when desiring to curry favor with others since everyone enjoys having their superior taste and understanding admired. "Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always wish to avoid." Of course, as with so much of Jane Austen, this advice is given tongue-in-cheek.

Irony, however, always grows out of a grain of truth. The quote above is no exception, particularly as it relates to women. Then as now, women usually find it's best not to flaunt their intelligence in front of the men they meet, socially or even in the business world. In my second novel, For Myself Alone, Jo Walker learns this hard lesson and tells us, "To my dismay, I have discovered that most gentlemen do not wish their prowess in the intellectual realm challenged, especially by anyone female." Is it any different today? Maybe we haven't come as far as we thought in the last two hundred years.

A Man of Good Fortune

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters."

With these immortal lines, we set off on the delightful romp that is Pride and Prejudice. When the wealthy Mr. Bingley enters the neighborhood, Mrs. Bennet immediately declares him the rightful property of some one or other of her unmarried daughters. Other families in the vicinity would have held similar beliefs of entitlement, however, so the case was by no means settled. And never mind that we haven't heard from Mr. Bingley himself; he has no say in the matter whatsoever. Therein lies the joke at the heart of this Jane Austen witticism.

It's interesting that although Mr. Darcy is soon discovered to be far wealthier, we don't see him relentlessly pursued by a horde of local maids and their ambitious mamas. In a society where marrying well was the only goal to which a young lady could aspire, it seems unlikely that even advanced age or well-established criminal tendencies would have saved a man with ten thousand pounds a year from such an onslaught. Mr. Darcy's flaws were not as grave as these, but, besides his wealth, his virtues were not immediately apparent either. In a bit of reparte from my sequel The Darcys of Pemberley, Lizzy says to him, "As I recall, it took much longer for me to discover your merits; they were so well-concealed." Taking up the game, Darcy responds in kind. "If you were so long in discovering them, perhaps the fault was not with the subject but with the observer." And so they go ...

Fresh Start

My apologies. As you may have noticed, I took a significant hiatus from this blog (during which I have been furiously working on my current novel). Now I want to make a fresh start with a more focused purpose and theme, as opposed to the random topics I've selected before. Okay, so what do I know, love, and never tire of discussing? It should have been obvious from the beginning: the writings of Jane Austen. Therefore, I will henceforth choose a Jane Austen quote and confine myself to editorializing on whatever subject it addresses. I look forward to the new challenge.

"Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody not greatly in fault themselves to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest."

This Jane Austen quote (taken from Mansfield Park, chapter 48) is probably my favorite in that it pretty much defines my literary philosophy. I'm interested in books that entertain me, that make me feel good, that sweep me away to another world. Although I know that without conflict there is no story, I'm glad when it's time to do away with the culprits and unite the lovers for a happily-ever-after ending. Reader satisfaction, in my opinion, stems from the hero or heroine overcoming their difficulties, not being destroyed by them. If someone prefers a dose of harsh reality, they can turn to "other pens" or turn on the news instead. But, like Jane Austen, I can be trusted to not dwell on guilt or misery any longer than absolutely necessary, and to restore the characters I've come to care about to tolerable comfort by the end of the book.

Learning Attitude

My 'day job' (dental hygienist) brings me into close contact with a wide variety of people. On a typical afternoon, at least one total stranger walks in my door. Ten minutes later, I know his entire medical history and he's allowing me to stick my fingers in his mouth. This forced intimacy has been good training, helping me overcome my basic shyness. And, surprisingly, it's now one of the aspects of the work that I appreciate most. I've established some lasting friendships over the years through these cozy, biannual visits and struck up conversations with interesting people I wouldn't otherwise have had a chance to know - cops on the beat, professional athletes, immigrants, artists, and master craftsmen. The people: that's what keeps the otherwise-repetitive work from being boring.

But yesterday, filling in for a gal on maternity leave, I had a patient who reminded me to be grateful for most of the others. This older man arrived grumpy, probably dissatisfied with life in general and expecting a dental visit to make it considerably worse. Things only went downhill from there. Everything hurt. Everything cost too much. Where was his regular hygienist? And why wasn't I doing things the way I had no way of knowing he preferred? Contrast that with the attitude of a dear, elderly little lady I remember well. She was a widow and had a list of medical problems as long as your arm, including two kinds of cancer to which she had lost various body parts and functions. Yet she praised God and told me how blessed her life had been, her smile lighting up the room.

Part of my job is to educate patients. But I often learn as much from them as they do from me. While I scale their teeth, I sometimes pick their brains for useful bits of information - i.e. how to contest a traffic citation or what's the best engineering school for my son. I'll try to keep in mind the larger life-lessons they teach me as well. Although I'm afraid I'm more naturally pessimistic like the man from yesterday, I'd prefer to be remembered as my other patient, someone who passed through this life and into the next with gentle dignity and grace.

HGTV

I have what might be called a love/hate relationship with HGTV. The love part is easy to explain and shared by thousands of other people. We love to watch people shop for a home on shows like "House Hunters," "Property Virgins," and "My First Place." Like falling in love, buying a house is an adventure that most of us don't get to experience first hand more than a couple times in our lives. So it's fun to relive the trill vicariously through others. We also love to witness a room/house/yard transformed from shabby to chic before our eyes, all neatly within the space of a half hour. As we unconsciously put ourselves in the place of the homeowners, we're allowed to share their gratification with the result while being spared the expense, the inconvenience, and the sheet rock dust in our teeth. So, what's not to like?

As I see it, the down side is that all this moving-up and home-improvement fever tends to engender a spirit of discontent that we might otherwise have avoided. In the real world, we aren't normally exposed to the "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" (is that show still on?). Oh, we may have an acquaintance or two who live pretty high on the hog. But most of our friends aren't much better off than we are. On HGTV, however, we see it daily - the young couple, barely out of college, house hunting with a million dollar budget; the bachelor looking at a four-bedroom home and complaining that it's really too small for his needs; the folks buying a weekend get-away in some tropical vacation spot, sighing that the interior will have to be completely gutted because they couldn't possibly be expected to live with the 1980's decor. I think what I find most offensive, though, is the obvious contradiction (obvious to me, anyway) between the pressure to, on one hand, "go green" and, on the other, to haul all your old stuff to the dump and buy new.

Now, we built our house in 1991, and, despite the fact that a couple of the then-new appliances have already bit the dust, I still occasionally think of it as "our new house." Yet by HGTV standards, the whole place is hopelessly dated - from the laminate counter tops and white appliances to the brass light fixtures. I guess I should be miserable that I don't have slab granite in the kitchen and brushed nickle fixtures throughout. I should be regretting that I didn't continue the hardwood floors down the hall and into the bedrooms, which seems to be what everybody wants today. But the truth is, I prefer the warmth and quiet of carpet under my bare feet. And, for the most part, I'm not dissatisfied with the finishes I chose when we built; I liked them then and I still do.

I suppose it's a sign of my deep-seated rebellious tendency that I'm resisting this adult form of peer pressure. If someone tells me I must like/support/believe something, I'm far more likely to go my own way than to go along. Here's an ancient example. If you're my age and remember when The Monkeys were the hot new band, you'll know that all the girls went crazy for lead singer Davey Jones. But I, with all the considered wisdom of a adolescent, defied the majority rule and decided I would like Mike Nesbitt instead, just to be contrary. That's why when I replace our dying dishwasher, I might pick a white one again instead of succumbing to the pressure to go with stainless steel. After all, in another ten years, someone is bound to decide that stainless is "out" and I might find myself on the leading edge of fashion once again.

Writing Right

Story telling is an art, but it is also a science. Just as there are immutable laws of physics that cannot be ignored, creative writing has rules which must be obeyed, a formula that must be followed. If readers and movie goers were conscious of this (which, fortunately, most are not), they might well feel insulted, even used, to know their emotions are being so carefully manipulated. Yet, if the writer violates one of these unspoken rules, the reader will instinctively know something went wrong and be let down by the result.

The protagonist must be sympathetic, or the reader will never care what happens to him/her. The plot must have conflict, or there is no story. The manuscript/screenplay must hit certain plot points, and the story must be brought to a satisfying conclusion. Fail to meet these (and many other) requirements, and the project will fall flat.

Using a tried-and-true framework is enormously helpful to a writer. It is a fool-proof safety net. Stay within the guidelines, and your story will work. The problem is we creative types like to think we're producing something original. We cry out in protest, "I refuse to prostitute myself by pandering to the masses, to sacrifice my art for the sake of a set of arbitrary rules." Okay, so that's a little overly dramatic, and the rules aren't at all arbitrary.

The fact is, there are no new stories, only new ways of retelling the old ones. Something in our human psyche longs to experience, again and again, the hero triumphing against all odds, love finding a way, and the bad guys getting what's coming to them in the end. These themes don't always prove true in real life, but we insist they be true in our entertainment. Otherwise we, as consumers, feel cheated and betrayed. That's one reason why departing too far from the well-trodden path rarely pays off for the writer. There's a standing joke in the industry that typifies this concept. What do publishers/film producers want? They want a proven commodity presented in a fresh way. In other words, "Give me the same thing, only different." Sure, no problem.