Final Exits — Death Scenes in Film and Literature

“A dying man can do nothing easy.” — Benjamin Franklin on his deathbed, April 17, 1790

Final exits are satisfying in literature and film.  They are moments of revelation, betrayal, sadness or wit.  Sometimes the dying person has a chance to say a few bon mots or a teary goodbye.  Often mysteries are resolved or in the case of the word, “Rosebud,” in Citizen Kane, launched.   Death propels the action, giving impetus to other characters that may have been stalled.  Death illuminates the life of the character that has passed, adding poignancy.  Death is meaningful, and possesses a great sense of dramatic timing.

In real life, death scenes usually suck.  They either drag out, or the person dies so quickly that there is no chance for goodbyes.  In real life, death does not have good dramatic timing.  Having been present at a number of death beds, dying is often more about waiting than wisdom.  Good exit lines are rare, which is why I will always treasure the final words of Oscar Wilde: “Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.”

Death with his daughter Susan and his servant (from the Hogfather)

As I am currently on death watch for another relative, I am taking solace in fiction.  Fiction has a gift for making sense of the senseless, and I think that I really need that.  This week I’ve been rereading Neil Gaiman’s Sandman #8 and some of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels.  Both feature Death as a main character, though the two representations of Death are very different.  Gaiman’s Death is a perky girl Goth, in love with life and the living.  Pratchett’s Death is skeletal and wields a scythe, but has a wonderfully dry sense of humor and strong relationships.  In both representations, Death has human moments, and cares deeply about the people he or she takes.  I find comfort in both visions.

Thinking about this has made me wonder if any of you out there have a favorite fictional death scene that you want to share.  What made it meaningful and memorable to you?

The floor is open.

Scribbling Across the Great Divide

Lately I’ve been pondering the great divide in the literary world. Call the two sides what you will–Artists and Hacks? Snobs and Scribblers?–the gulf feels vast and gaping. Consider these real-life quotes from teachers, readers and writers of my acquaintance:

  • “Anyone can write a plot-driven story.”
  • “You can always tell a literary award winner–it’s the story where nothing ever happens.”
  • “Genre fiction isn’t literature.”
  • “That highbrow crap puts me to sleep.”

I’m not sure where all this leaves me, except uncomfortably stretched with a foot in each camp. As a reader I worship equally at the twin altars of fine literary writing and rip-roaring good tales; both have given me endless hours of pleasure. But as a writer you’re apparently expected to choose, or at least to strap on a pen name whenever you sneak out to fraternize with the enemy.

It’s all such nonsense. The real division isn’t between artistic writers and commercial ones, it’s between good writers and bad ones–and there’s plenty of awful and awe-inspiring writing on both sides of the perceived literary chasm. For every craftless hack cranking out formulaic tripe, O my friends and fiends, there’s a navel-gazing pretender who thinks poetic adjectives can spin shit into gold.

Speaking of chasms, will someone please explain this artificial distinction drawn between genre fiction and everything else? Wherever you shelve his books, Kurt Vonnegut is a science fiction writer. You can call it magical realism till you’re blue in the face, but Alice Hoffman is a fantasy writer. So are Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, Gunter Grass, Tom Robbins, Mark Helprin, Salman Rushdie and scores of other writers you’ll find in Fiction and Literature. Jane Austen wrote romance novels (really juicy ones). Crime and Punishment is a psychological thriller. Dickens wrote for the masses, not the ages.

It’s little wonder that genre fiction, so derided in literary circles and scorned in MFA programs, looks like a ghetto. People keep insisting that its best and brightest citizens live in a different neighborhood altogether.

This post was originally published on my Wordswoman blog.

Interview with a Cow Rider

Boy riding a cow in the 1950s in Minnesota, courtesy Life magazine.

Boy riding a cow in the 1950s in Minnesota, courtesy Life magazine.

One hears a lot about cowboys and cattle herding, but very little about people actually riding on cows.  When my friend Todd W told me about his history as a Cow Rider, I knew that I had to interview him for this blog.

Me: Todd, I understand that you used to ride cows as a child.  Can you tell me about how you got started?

Todd: As a small child, my grandparents lived close to each other. One had a small hobby farm with horses and ponies. That is where I learned and honed my skills as a rider.

When my family and I would leave, we would drive down the dirt road to the other grandparents home. Which was a small dairy farm, and of course, being the next Roy Roger, I wanted to continue riding. But one problem, they only had cows to ride, so my parents plopped me on the back of one, and that is how I got started.

Me: What does riding a cow feel like?  Is the cow mostly cooperative?
Todd: Mind you, I was riding bareback with no reins, so it was probably harder than it needed to be. Physically, it was awkward. Cows have very broad backs. I kind of felt like a turkey wishbone being pulled apart as I was doing gymnastic splits incorrectly. There was no way I could have put my feet in stirrups, even if I had a saddle.

Mentally, I was beginning my failed attempt at becoming a pro rodeo bull rider, so I was elated.

The cow was VERY cooperative. At a full trot, we moved about two feet for another mouthful of grass.
Me: Writers love details.  Do cows smell differently than horses?  Are they sweatier or less sweaty?
Todd:  Why, yes, they do. I can only describe a cow’s smell as earthy and a horse as musky. I slightly prefer the scent of a cow over a horse, unless the horse is standing in hay. Then the aroma is greatly improved.

From personal experience, I have never been on or seen a cow that sweats, so I guess the horse wins.

Me: How far did you wind up traveling on your cow?

Todd: Over a three year period, I would estimate about 30 feet. 20 feet of that was due to the fact that I rode once from the barn to the pasture.

Me: What was the silliest thing that happened to you while cow riding?
Todd:  It would have to be the time I turned around and sat backwards to figure out what everyone was pointing and laughing at. The odor soon gave me the clue I was looking for. You know, thinking back on that, I wonder why there is cow pie bingo when the cows never move.
Me: Do you have a current picture of you (with or without a cowboy
hat) that you would like to share?
Sorry, no photos available. I do believe there are rules concerning hats and riding animals though. I believe the people riding horses and herding cattle are allowed to wear cowboy hats. If you ride a cow, no hat is required, but if you insist on wearing one, it should be a baseball cap that says John Deere or have a grain storage facility logo on it.

Where the Wild Things Are… Still

Where the Wild Things Are shifted my literary landscape profoundly.  When I first encountered the book, it was six years old.  I was three.  We became the best of friends.

With it, I learned the magic trick of staring into monsters eyes without blinking, and so learned to face my deepest fears.  I reveled in the Wild Rumpus, and as I grew up I sailed through night and day, and in and out of weeks, and almost over a year to where the wild things are.  I kept sailing to those wild places, over and over and over again.

I did not think much, in those days, of the daring mind that took me to those wild places.   I did not think of the artist who understood the darkness and cruelty of childhood and who knew our need for stories that explored those dark depths.  I never thought of the man who gave us slightly scary, slightly goofy adventures and who with astonishing gentleness always brought us home at the end.  The man who knew that it was important that our dinner be waiting for us and still be hot.

I did not know anything about him, but I read his books for over forty years.  In college, I had stuffed dolls of Max and his monsters on my desk, and once grew frantic when my favorite monster was “kidnapped” and held for a ransom of freshly baked cookies by someone on my college dorm room floor.  Years later, my own children played with those dolls while I read the book to them.  I do puppet plays of Where the Wild Things Are with preschoolers at the library, sharing that beautiful poetic text and my favorite wild monsters with each new generation.

It was only today that I wound up listening to Terry Gross’s four interviews with Maurice Sendak.  And I wept.  I did not know that Sendak, like me, was haunted with the legacy of the Holocaust.  I was raised by a woman with numbers on her arm and an implacable anger at the world.  Sendak felt unloved by parents who were in the midst of grieving for all the family members they could not save.   I identified with his struggles, and gloried in his choice to make his last years about his art, his way.

Sendak was an atheist.  In the last interview he did with Terry, he said:

You know who my gods are, who I believe in fervently? Herman Melville, Emily Dickinson — she’s probably the top — Mozart, Shakespeare, Keats. These are wonderful gods who have gotten me through the narrow straits of life.

Sendak talked about how he didn’t believe in an afterlife, and yet how he wished that there was one so that he could see his friends and loved ones again.  Like him, I don’t know if there is an afterlife.  But I like to imagine him sailing back over a year, and in and out of weeks, and throughout a day into the night of his very own room.

Mr. Sendak, may you always find supper waiting for you, and may it always still be hot.

New Petition Afoot: Publishers, Please Sell Libraries Your eBooks!

A while ago I wrote On Libraries, Publishers and E-Books, which lamented the decision of the big six publishers to withhold their ebooks from the library market.  Libraries are willing buyers of ebooks, and we have a huge customer demand, but we cannot buy The Hunger Games in ebook format because Scholastic won’t sell it to us.  The fact that not all publishers are willing to sell to us leads to weird gaps in our collection.  The public may well wonder why we have books 17 and 18 of Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum series in ebook format, but not any of the preceding sixteen novels.  The answer is that Smokin’ Seventeen and Explosive Eighteen are published by Bantam, which sells to libraries.   The other sixteen books were published by MacMillan, which does not.

Well, now the Public Library of Topeka and Shawnee County has taken a stand.  They have started an online petition called: ebooks for libraries asking publishers to reconsider.  Library users often purchase the books they borrow.  They use the library to discover new authors and to sample new things.  If you’re a book lover, please sign it.  Please share it.  If publishers sell to libraries, everyone benefits — including the publishers.

Hmm

Trimming the Fat, Covering the Bones

No, this isn’t about cooking. :)

Whenever I critique the work of other aspiring writers, I seem to find myself repeating two comments:

  • “Your writing style has good bones, but there’s too much fat on them.”
  • “This story seems to take place in a white room. I can’t see the surroundings or visualize the characters.”

What I call hyperdescription is the condition that my friend Hilary Moon Murphy calls “being overdrawn at the adjective bank.” Here’s a deliberately dreadful example:

Lila removed her stylish blue cloque hat with one slender manicured hand, then carefully smoothed the shining auburn curls framing the perfect ivory oval of her heartbreakingly beautiful face. With a sultry wiggle of her shapely backside, she settled herself into the battered oak chair opposite my cluttered desk and suggestively crossed her long, nylon-covered legs.

Ugghhh. Hear those poor sentences groaning under the excess weight? That’s 56 words just to say “Lila took off her hat and sat down.” And the extra poundage is fat, not muscle. What does “beautiful” really tell us about Lila? Does anybody care that the chair is made of oak? More importantly, can the reader find an honest, active verb hidden in all that mess?

Hypodescription is just the opposite. There’s little or no descriptive detail. Here’s another awful invented example:

Bob showed up around half past five. “I don’t feel like going to this party,” he said.

“What?” Mary cried. “But you promised!”

Bob shrugged and sat down. “Changed my mind.”

Mary stormed off furiously, slamming the door behind her.

Um…what door? And what did Bob sit on? Where are these people? Who are these people?

Obviously there’s no magic formula here. Who’s to say how much description is too much? Too little? A thriller with a hard-boiled hero may demand pared-down prose; a period romance might call for lush, detailed descriptions of every ball gown. But readers will notice if a writer veers too far toward either extreme, and beginning writers often do.

I’m a hypodescriber by nature–I have to make a deliberate effort to go back and work in visual/sensory details and character attributes. A writing teacher once called my descriptions “light and cerebral,” and recommended that I work on appealing to all the senses. I try to, but it often feels forced to me.

Where do you fall on the spectrum, O my writer friends?

Portions of this post previously appeared on the Wordswoman blog.

Sir Julian Corbett, Renegade Theorist

Sir Julian Corbett

In 1911, Sir Julian Corbett (1854-1922) published Some Principles of Maritime Strategy. Principles established a broad theory of war and maritime strategy that conflicted sharply with the prevailing naval doctrines of his day.

Corbett’s father was a successful architect and property developer who provided him with the means to study travel extensively. He attended Marlborough College and Trinity College, Cambridge, receiving a “first class honours degree” in law. He began working as a barrister in 1877. In 1882 he left his law practice to be a correspondent and novelist. He published four novels before writing books on naval history. Although he had no military background, Corbett’s histories attracted attention from important. 1896, renowned professor and naval historian John Knox Laughton invited Corbett to edit his work in progress on the Spanish War, 1585-87. This corroboration began Corbett’s progression from “hobby historian” to profoundly important naval historian and theorist. Principles so impressed the British admiralty that in spite of Corbett’s lack of military credentials, they invited him to begin lecturing at the fledgling British Royal Naval War College in 1902. He became the admiralty’s chief unofficial advisor, and rose to “Secretary of the Cabinet Historical Office.” He was one of the most influential naval theorists in history, widely studied to this day.

As arrogant as it may sound to us today, Corbett (again, having no military or political credentials) wrote Principles specifically to influence Britain’s naval policy. The prevailing strategy at that time encouraged “decisive battle” and “command (control) of the sea” executed by large fleets. This theory, encouraged by A.T. Mahan’s very influential book, The Influence of Sea Power Upon History (1890) had long been embraced by most of the senior staff of the British Royal Navy (as well as those of most other major navies.) Mahan’s book had provided the admiralty with justification for developing a more powerful fleet capable of decisive force projection, built around massive (and exorbitantly expensive) battleships. Corbett considered this policy unrealistic, wasteful, and potentially dangerous. Corbett may not have been a politician, but he knew how to influence policy. Leveraging his popularity as a novelist, he wrote Principles for public consumption, not just for politicians and military professionals. His comfortable style enabled him to communicate effectively with the non-professional reader. In fact, Principles is still an easy read, with a surprisingly contemporary feel in both language and structure.

Principles explained Corbett’s ideas simply and progressively, leading the reader to inevitable, logical conclusions. He often stated that the purpose of all his work on maritime theory and history was to contribute to the development of a common understanding and vocabulary, so that people across the spectrum could work together to create sound policy. Corbett’s approach succeeded, and in doing so, he turned the policy process upside-down.

Corbett does not offer a general theory of war at sea, focusing instead on maritime strategy and its impact on state power. Principles begins by developing a basic theory of war based in part on the theories of Jomini, but more so upon those of Clausewitz. Like Clausewitz (and unlike Jomini) Corbett prefers the term “art of war” over “science of war.” Any formulaic “science” of warfare tends to lead decision-makers to believe that they can predict and control the outcome of war. Corbett was also suspicious of any idea of universal and eternal theory. He did not believe that war could be distilled into a set of immutable precepts. Corbett believed that war is far too unpredictable for a nation to entrust its very existence to a single “decisive battle,” as advocated by Mahan. All war, in his view, changed constantly, and was subject to chance on every level.

Corbett proposed that naval strategy should be only part of the greater maritime strategy of the state, encompassing economics and policy as well as the use of military force (another Clausewitzian position.) In Part I of Principles, Corbett emphasized: “Military action…must never supercede policy. The policy is always the object.” Chapters 2-6 discussed the nature of war, defining the concept of limited war and providing analysis of the principles and inherent dangers in wars of intervention. Throughout Part I, Corbett turned complex concepts of continental (land-based) military theory into simpler forms, enabling common understanding. In Part II, “Theory of Naval War,” he compares continental strategy to naval strategy. Corbett explains that while some elements of continental strategy and naval strategy correspond well, most do not. He generally rejects Jomini’s prescriptive methods of continental strategy, at least in application to naval strategy. To Corbett, Jomini’s most fundamental principles did not apply due to the differences between movement on terrain and movement over water. Continental wars were generally fought between neighbors. Their armies were so restrained by march distances, lengths of supply lines, and the shape of the ground that a state’s whole force may have been fixed to a specific location. Naval warfare is not similarly constrained. When the sea is the border, all nations with ports are neighbors (and competitors.) In Corbett’s theory of naval war, “command of the sea” as promoted by Mahan was too fleeting and localized to be a sustainable policy of the state. A navy cannot be in all places at all times, and the act of concentrating forces in one place necessarily places other areas at risk. He rejected the idea of the decisive battle, because the enemy at sea was too hard to find, and even if located, they could easily and quickly disperse, preventing the attacking naval force from eliminating them.

Corbett believed a navy’s principle task was to protect sea lines of communication (shipping routes) and preserve trade. In war, that task expanded to limiting or interfering with the enemy’s ability to conduct trade or resupply by sea. Corbett argues for a policy of strategic defense and tactical offense. He believed that a naval force should not over-concentrate (as it would in an attempt at decisive battle) but rather occupy numerous positions critical to the efficient operation of the fleet as a whole, focusing on the defense of the home shores. Corbett concluded the book with a chapter on the attack and defense of trade, fleet attack, fleet defense, and naval support of continental military expeditions. He taught shore defense and a dispersed fleet, but also believed that (especially in wartime) the navy should retain the ability to form a strike force capable of exploiting tactical opportunities, especially in the case of an enemy demonstrating serious strategic weakness or fatigue. In short, Corbett does not dismiss the importance of a naval offensive capability, but subordinates it to the defense so that the navy may exhaust and destroy the enemy at a preferable time and place.

The modern reader will be surprised by the modernity and relevance of Some Principles of Maritime Strategy. Corbett demonstrated a sound understanding of military theory, bringing great light to the works of Jomini and Clausewitz. His insights into Clausewitz alone make the book worth reading. His then-controversial views on maritime strategy and the role of navies may be as relevant today as they were the day this book was written.

 

Interested in this topic? Come back next week for the other side of naval theory: Alfred Thayer Mahan was as Jominian as Corbett was Clausewitzian. Whatever we may think of his theories, the book by this American Naval Officer may well have changed the course of history.

How to Design a Website Like This One

I’ve decided to make a record of my experience in creating this and other websites using WordPress. This is a series of short articles that you can access through the menu above (under Resources for Writers / Website Tutorial), taking you step by step through what you need to know to make a professionally functioning site.

There are a lot of words, because there are a lot of concepts to cover. Actually doing the steps to get a basic site up and running, took me about an hour the last time I did it, but of course I already knew what to do.

So, if you want to set up a website for yourself or for a group of people like our Herd here, follow the link and do it in stages. The parts I’ve written so far take you up to the point of having a functioning site with any number of fixed pages and a blog, a menu, and spam protection. I’ll probably be revising these based on your comments, and I have a list of additional topics yet to be written.

Please comment here, or on the pages themselves, if you have questions or suggestions for improving the content.

Why do you like Lisbeth Salander?

 

Two visions of Lisbeth, American and Swedish.

She’s a liar.  She steals.  She looks…odd.  She’s not just rude, she’s incapable of relating to most people.  She deliberately and flagrantly breaks the law.  If you met her, she would ignore you.  Bring her home to mother??  You’ve got to be kidding.

Yet…she is appallingly attractive.  Audiences adore her, people say they want to hug her.

Thoughts on how the author and film-makers caused such an unappealing person to be so endearing?  I think there might be some lessons in here for us writer types.