Writing, people, language, and life
Immersive reading was my drug through an unhappy childhood and adolescence, with all the desperate need and avoidance of unpleasant reality that addiction entails. Books damaged my eyes rather than my liver, but they gave far more than they took. I lived more in books than in my hometown. I mainlined stories and characters and other lands, other realities.
There are worse ways to shut out the world.
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RJ Hayden @RJHayden I can tell you read my tweets, even though you don’t follow me. #justsayingupster Expand |
2 May | |
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RJ Hayden @RJHayden In the gazebo where I used to kiss you breathless, I’ve left something for you. Expand |
3 May | |
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Scott @ScottyBoy79 What? Dude u never kissed me breathless! Expand |
3 May | |
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RJ Hayden @RJHayden Only in your wettest dreams, Scott. Wasn’t talking to you Expand |
3 May |
by Erin MorgensternAt the entrance to the Night Circus, Le Cirque des Rêves, the Circus of Dreams, stands a curious clock. By night,
The face of the clock becomes a darker grey, and then black, with twinkling stars where the numbers had been previously. The body of the clock, which has been methodically turning itself inside out and expanding, is now entirely subtle shades of white and grey. And it is not just pieces, it is figures and objects, perfectly carved flowers and planets and tiny books with actual pages that turn. There is a silver dragon that curls around part of the now visible clockwork, a tiny princess in a carved tower who paces in distress, awaiting an absent prince. Teapots that pour into teacups and minuscule curls of steam that rise from them as the seconds tick. Wrapped presents open. Small cats chase small dogs. An entire game of chess is played…
By noon it is a clock again, and no longer a dream.
“How would you prefer to do it? Tell me. I’ll do it your way.”
We sat at a table near the window.
“What is this bullshit, Rob? We’ve been on this trip together since, what, fourth grade? This is a joke, right?”
“I’m breaking up with you, Henry.”
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What sane person would want to write historical fiction?
Consider the challenges. You have to create a realistic, immersive sense of the past that requires you to know the period down to its hemlines, chariot wheels, and cooking technology, but you have to hide most of your research so that your story isn’t buried under historical details. It’s not a textbook. You have to know your intellectual history as well, so that your characters don’t think thoughts that people couldn’t have before Copernicus, or Darwin, or Betty Friedan, but you also have to make these strange people with their archaic paradigms relatable to your modern readers.
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I complained about this recalcitrant chapter to my friends and my husband, and if they weren’t bored and annoyed, then they are much nobler people than I am. My Facebook writing group (consisting of several Nosy Authors and a few others) offered great suggestions, including having the characters jump on a trampoline while I moved on to work on other chapters.
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Throwing out thousands of books in three libraries over the past nine years has cured me of bibliophilia, though nothing on this side of mortality can ever release me from my thralldom to stories, to the written word, to the English language in all its bastardized brilliance.
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