Mid Year News

I started 2024 off with some plans for the year. Now that we are at the tail end of June, here is a bit of an update. The weeks have flown, but they haven't been uneventful. 

1) My Diploma and Trophy

In early April we graduated. It's great to tick off study milestones. I received my Graduate Diploma of Creative Writing and Communication, while my husband, Andrew, received his Master of Teaching. As a total surprise, I was presented with one of the special academic awards of the ceremony. It boosted my confidence in ways I can't describe. Since my undergraduate days, so long ago now, I never considered myself much good at formal study. The rigors of that course had knocked my teenage bravado right out of me. I purposely planned this blog to be all about discussing classic and bestselling literature in a down-to-earth, no-frills style.

(Check out this other blog post I wrote, A blog for normies.)

But perhaps I'm not a complete academic slouch after all. I'm taking this lovely trophy as a serendipitous wink to keep on writing. Not surprisingly, however, the assignments that involved storytelling suited me for better than anything requiring referencing and lots of research. 

I'm glad I followed through with my studies at Tabor College. You never know what you're capable of if you don't give a try, and in all honesty, part of my impetus was need. When I'd finished homeschooling my kids, I had to find something to do to help keep a bit of an income rolling in.

2) My Fan Fiction

I've been keeping a lid on this one all year, but can't help letting out a little bit of excitement. After a hiatus from fiction writing of almost a decade, I've caught the bug again. I've been working hard since February on something totally different from anything I've written before, and to mark the change, I've used a pseudonym. 

When I stumbled across the awesome, extensive Archive of Our Own fan fiction site (or AO3) I instantly decided to add writing a fan fiction to my bucket list. Daydreaming further details of other authors' brilliant characters long after I've finished their books has always been second nature to me. So I chose my fictional universe (Louisa May Alcott's Little Women - Jo's Boys series), came up with my main characters (a couple of her 'boys') and started scribbling away. And the project has really ignited my imagination and taken off! 

What's more, I learned an important fact about myself in the process. Writing fiction energises me more than writing non-fiction. During my Diploma, I imagined trying my hand at a non-fiction book. I had good intentions to try adding to the glut of happiness literature with a book entitled, 'Happiness Tips from Fictional Characters.' I meant to draw examples from many of the reviews I've written for this blog. I'd even completed a major assignment about how I envisaged the layout, with a few sample examples. Yet in all honesty, it always felt like a bit of grind when it came to actually working on it.

Once I started my new fan fiction though, my drive was instantaneous. My imagination kept drifting back to it. The contrast was so dramatic, I've accepted once for all time that working on non-fiction will never excite me in the same way as writing stories. 

I still enjoy reading non-fiction though. It's just that now I have even more respect for non-fiction authors than ever before, because they manage to see ideas through to book form, which I could never bother forcing myself to do. 

Hey, if somebody else writes a book of happiness tips from fictional characters, I'll read it. 

3) Social Media

I've been having a bit of a time crisis with the juggling act between my couple of platforms. The vastness of 'bookstagram' has been swamping me most of all. I appreciate the wise souls who have pointed out that the human spirit isn't equipped to cope with the beast we've created. Human beings existed for centuries with social outlets of just twenty to fifty friends and acquaintances. And their places of influence spanned a few miles around their physical dwellings, at least most of the time. Now we've suddenly had our reach exploding! The invention of the internet means we may now consider an unlimited crowd from right around the globe to be personal friends of ours. And they're all potentially available the very second we share something. While our egos may cry out, 'Hell, yeah!' our finite cellular make-up crumbles under the pressure. I'm sure I'm not alone. 

Misplaced guilt has been dogging me. Many online friends I follow publish a steady stream of beautiful, painstaking, well-curated posts. Giving them each the appreciation they deserve would require hours of attention and concentration, rather than the half-hour or so I put aside for scrolling through Instagram and Facebook. Responding as I'd like to would take me at least half a day, so since I'm just one individual with a limited time frame, I often find myself skimming or scrolling past instead. That's the source of my misplaced guilt. I can't help feeling callous, even though logic tells me keeping on top of it all is an impossible dream. In Johann Hari's book, Stolen Focus, he uses the analogy of trying to drink water from a fire hose. We simply can't keep up. 

When we try, with the best of intentions, our attention spans are frizzled. I won't go there now though. That's a subject for another day, and more thorough thinkers than I am have tackled it. 

I've slowed down my own Instagram output without sputtering out completely, although to be completely honest, I've sometimes considered pulling the plug. I'm not really sure what to do about the time-sucking nature of this problem, either spreading us way too thin or loading shovels of guilt on our frail psyches for not keeping up with the stream of feed.  

How do you handle it?

4) For now anyway... 

I'm keeping up with this blog. I consider myself to be providing a low-key but vital service by adding impressions and personal details about books people may want other opinions about. Quite often, a post will receive comments years after I've written it, from readers who are just now enjoying the books I've discussed. 

And of course my fan fiction (it's called 'Longing For Home') is never far from the top of my mind. Many chapters are now up on AO3, but as I'm not finished yet, I'll keep quiet again until later. I'll just say that I wouldn't mind letting you in on the secret if you twist my arm.

 Perhaps now that I've let the cat out of the bag, I'll follow up with more posts about my fan fiction writing process in the future. 

It's been refreshing to step back from the type of personal marketing that used to cause me a fair amount of stress. Rather than trying to sell myself, I'll merely ask you if you'd fancy an immersive story about one of Jo March's nephews, along with one of Laurie's proteges?

 If so, 'Longing for Home' may be just what you're looking for. 

       

'Treasure Island' by Robert Louis Stevenson

Designed to forever kindle a dream of high romance and distant horizons, Treasure Island is, in the words of G. K. Chesterton, 'the realization of an ideal, that which is promised in its provocative and beckoning map; a vision not only of white skeletons but also green palm trees and sapphire seas.' G. S. Fraser terms it 'an utterly original book' and goes on to write: 'There will always be a place for stories like Treasure Island that can keep boys and old men happy.'

MY THOUGHTS:

I never considered myself among the target audience for this classic. Perhaps that's why I've only now got around to reading the Victorian boys' adventure story, because it was part of a beautiful set of William Morris inspired kids' classics I came across. 

Jim Hawkins' father is the inn-keeper of the Admiral Benbow, a small coastal hotel. One day a scruffy old sailor shows up, and gatecrashes for weeks, deterring more refined clientele. He finally dies after guzzling too much rum, leaving behind a battered wooden chest. Inside, young Jim finds a bundle of papers wrapped in oil cloth, including a map of a mysterious island with buried treasure clearly marked.

Mr Trelawney, the talkative local squire, along with the more circumspect Dr Livesey, decide to hire a ship and follow the directions with Jim as cabin boy. Trelawney reveals too much about their top secret mission while hiring a crew for the Hispaniola. A sweet talking, one-legged man named Long John Silver begs for a job as cook, and offers to recommend several other willing crewmen. Sounds legit, hey? 

Not until they're long underway does young Jim accidentally overhear a frightening plot. Turns out he and his mentors have unintentionally surrounded themselves with a ruthless gang of cutthroat pirates. They must begin a dicey game to fake oblivion among these desperadoes who are also playing their own role of innocent sailors. And the good guys know full well time is of the essence. They must figure out what to do quick smart.  

This action adventure yarn probably took off from the outset because Stevenson created an easy hero for his target audience to get behind. Jim Hawkins is supposedly just a normal kid, yet when the crunch comes, he keeps surprising himself with his own amazing strokes of luck and quick-thinking way out of jams. His terrifying predicaments always turn out to be the exact right place and time for life-saving exploits. Stevenson's original boy readers might've liked to imagine they possessed similar reserves of dormant heroism. 

(Okay, hold tight for a bit of a rant. I've come across many reviewers who criticise modern kids' novels because the main characters are willful and flout authority at every turn. 'Harry had no business to disobey rules and wander around the halls of Hogwarts at night; it gives such wrong messages to kids, yada, yada.' Well, believe me, no young fictional hero could possibly top Jim Hawkins for brazen disobedience and going off on his own merry way, ignoring masters and mentors. And this is a beloved classic from the Victorian era, when children were generally well-behaved. I guess my point is that compliant youngsters who always do as they're told don't always find themselves in riveting story situations. We need to cut modern authors some slack.)

Also quite fascinating is the mutual admiration between young Jim and Long John Silver. These main characters stand for opposing values, yet their behaviour styles are similar. Silver is a charismatic chameleon who makes accurate split-second decisions on the spot, which keeps him from the noose. I suspect the psychological reason young boys enjoy playing pirates, or reading about them, is to flirt with their own shadow selves in a socially acceptable way. If so, then Stevenson really provides for this manner of indulging their intrigue for darkness, while remaining squeaky clean themselves. 

I can't figure out whether my 4-star ranking is for the quality of Stevenson's story or because of how popular culture has jumped onto the fruit of his imagination. He's done for piracy what Dickens did for Christmas. It's all so colourful and reckless. Whether it's Long John Silver bellowing, 'Shiver me timbers,' or Captain Flint, the parrot, squawking, 'Pieces of Eight,' it's become the stuff of legend. Piracy clearly isn't just a job, it's a lifestyle. 

Still, I find it interesting how these Victorian pirates feel uneasily tied in their minds. (They're technically Georgian, since Stevenson set it a century before he wrote it.) Even though they've relinquished their souls to booze and vice, an uneasy Christian worldview hovers over their heads, filling them with dread for the afterlife. I suspect that if the likes of Dick Johnson and Israel Hands existed today, their consciences would have a far easier time, yet on the other hand, 21st century outlaws have surely lost a lot of their romantic mystique. Hopefully young Dick, at least, wouldn't find it so easy to be lured to the dark side, so to speak.  

I learned some interesting facts while reading Treasure Island. There is the barbaric practice of 'keel hauling' in which miscreants are roped up and dragged beneath the ship's keel, having their flesh maimed by barnacles and other sharp marine life. And the meaning behind the jolly roger flag, which stems from the French 'joli rouge' meaning 'pretty red' with its bloodthirsty connotations.  

Of course, running through the whole story is, 'Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.' Sort of corny really, but it's unapologetically over-the-top and fun.

I doubt I'll ever be tempted to re-read it, but 4 stars anyway. 

🌟🌟🌟🌟

'Five Little Pigs' by Agatha Christie

It was an open and shut case. All the evidence said Caroline Crale poisoned her philandering husband, a brilliant painter. She was quickly and easily convicted and sentenced to life in prison.
Now, sixteen years later, in a posthumous letter, Mrs. Crale has assured her grown daughter that she was innocent. But instead of setting the young woman's mind at ease, the letter only raises disquieting questions. Did Caroline indeed write the truth? And if she didn't kill her husband, who did?

MY THOUGHTS:

The earnest young woman says, 'I've got to have the best,' to which the private detective replies, 'Rest assured, I am the best.' This is one of my favourite Hercule Poirot mysteries so far.

Amyas Crale, the brilliant artist, was murdered by poison, and his wife, Caroline, was convicted of the crime. Sixteen years later, their daughter, Carla, hires Hercule Poirot to prove her mother's innocence, since she feels her future happiness with her fiance depends on having it all cleared. After such a long time lapse, all tangible evidence is long gone, so Poirot must solve the crime purely by thinking about it. He interviews each of the five main witnesses who were on the spot, and asks for their written testimonies regarding the crime scene. He reasons, 'With the passage of time, the mind retains a hold on essentials and rejects superficial matters.' 

To help keep things straight, Poirot can't help slotting each of these witnesses into the framework of 'This Little Piggy,' the fun rhyme we've all played with our babies' toes. He knows, as do we, that if Caroline Crale didn't kill Amyas, it must surely have been one of them.

1) Philip Blake, a stockbroker and Amyas's best friend. (This little piggy went to market.)

2) Meredith Blake, Philip's brother, the country squire, a homebody who dabbles in herbalism and potions. (This little piggy stayed home.)

3) Miss Elsa Greer, a ravishingly beautiful 20-year-old, who is Amyas's fling and the muse for his most recent masterpiece. (This little piggy had roast beef.)

4) Miss Cecilia Williams, the governess of Caroline's teenage sister, Angela. She now lives in straitened circumstances. (This little piggy had none.)

5) Miss Angela Warren, Caroline's 15-year-old stepsister, who is highly original but somewhat wild and tempestuous. (This little piggy went wee wee wee.)  

Even though both Amyas and Caroline have been dead for years, a compelling composite picture is formed of the pair of them from the collective memories of these five, although they contradict each others' opinions and emphasize different aspects. All 'little pigs' seem genuine and credible, which thickens the plot nicely. Poirot shines at his best here too. Despite his high opinion of himself he comes across as both considerate and compassionate. And his personal musings on the true nature of both happiness and success are worth noting down. 

For example, he compares the struggling, working class Miss Williams with the filthy rich Lady Dittisham, formerly Miss Greer. Elsa, who starts out with every possible advantage, is now empty like a 'flower overtaken by untimely frost.' (This character strikes me as a type of Scarlet O'Hara, high on energy and restless drive, but not so much on imagination or overall contentment.) Miss Williams, on the other hand, sits in her tiny dwelling with perfect satisfaction. 'Miss Williams' life had been interesting to her - she was still interested in people and events. She had her memories, her small pleasures made possible by stringent economies, and sufficient health and vigour to enable her still to be interested in life.' 

The murderer turned out to be the 'little pig' I hoped it was, which leaves a favorable impression. I'm taking off half a star only because the finish seems rather abrupt following the big revelation. I would've liked to have seen how the remaining innocent 'pigs' would have reacted to the big announcement, but the curtain comes down too fast.  

Finally, I wonder whether this particular story was a cathartic exercise for Agatha Christie, exorcising the hurtful bombshell of her own past, when her first husband abandoned her for her best friend. (That bit of real-life literary scandal is well known to her fans over the years, and so long ago now, I don't feel gossipy for writing it here.) Amyas Crale has the same initials as her own cheating hubby, Archibald Christie. For any other author I'd be willing to believe that could be purely coincidental, but since Dame Agatha wrote so many plots which hinged on apparent subtleties like this, no way! 

The guy she describes as a 'ruthless, selfish, good tempered, happy egoist,' brimming over with brilliance gets what was coming to him, at least in this story. 

Nicely done. 

🌟🌟🌟🌟½  

  

'A City of Bells' by Elizabeth Goudge

Jocelyn Irvin has just returned from the Boer War with an incurably lamed leg. He heads for the cathedral town or Torminster, where he recovers his love of life in the invigorating company of his cousin, Hugh Anthony, his grandfather, the Canon and Henrietta.

When Jocelyn moved into the little house where Ferranti once had lived, a dark Byronic spirit haunted its rooms. Was Ferranti alive or dead? Until they knew, Jocelyn and Felicity must reach out to him. Until Ferranti no longer needed them, they must yield slowly to the madness of love. So the ghost of Gabriel Ferranti guided their lives in surprising ways, and more than one bewildered heart was restored to the wonder and magic of living.

MY THOUGHTS:

This is one of my favourite Goudge novels so far. It was published in 1936 but set even earlier, around the turn of the 20th century.

Jocelyn Irvin is a disconsolate young Boer War vet who's been wounded in combat and wonders what he now has to offer the world. When he goes to stay with his grandparents in the Cathedral town of Torminster, big surprises unfold. Jocelyn is coerced to rent an abandoned premise on the High Street and start a bookshop. 

Next, he discovers some intriguing snippets of verse and marginalia by the former resident, a down-and-out poet named Gabriel Ferranti, who has disappeared. When Jocelyn decides on a whim to fill in the gaps and finish Ferranti's project, he has no idea how it's destined to take shape. 

Meanwhile, Jocelyn is often followed around by two polar opposite kids; his inquisitive cousin Hugh Anthony who is always demanding to know the 'whys' of everything, and the dreamy, contemplative adoptee, Henrietta, who is a bit of a nature mystic. Their childhood antics comprise the second main thread of the book.

I like Jocelyn's predicament, as he embodies the optimistic theme that life may still hold lots in store for someone who is burned-out. Sometimes destiny takes a bit of arm-twisting from others. Felicity, his future love interest, and Henrietta,  who'd both only just met him, shed bitter tears to think that he might refuse to open the bookshop. The sensible part of me says, 'Gee whiz, girls, a bloke doesn't have to open a bookshop if he doesn't want to,' while my romantic, Goudge-inspired soul urges, 'Come on mate, you'd better just cave in and do it.'  

Being an early 20th century novel, we come up close and personal with some outdated attitudes, especially from 'Grandmother.' Here's her attitude when Jocelyn decides to start the shop after all.