In Pursuit of Eschewing Surplusage

A co-worker recently directed me to Mark Twain's criticism of James Fenimore Cooper's "Leatherstocking Tales," a series about one ridiculous Natty Bumppo and quite a few historically inaccurate American Indians. I confess, I've never read much of Twain's work in general (aside from "Pudd'nhead Wilson," which I thoroughly enjoyed), so his criticism was a delightful surprise.

Twain's essay, titled "Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses," outlines a series of guidelines or prerequisites for "literary art in domain of romantic fiction" and one by one describes how Fenimore Cooper failed to even comprehend these guidelines.

I think what I love about Twain is his flexibility:
- He can be long-winded and blustery: "when the personages of a tale deal in conversation, the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a show of relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject at hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say" (paragraph 8)
- He can be incredibly to the point: "Eschew surplusage" (paragraph 18)
- He uses sarcasm and irony incredibly well: "I wish I may never know peace again if he doesn't strike out promptly and follow the track of that cannon-ball across the plain in the dense fog and find the fort. Isn't it a daisy?" (paragraph 25)
- He is generally in complete earnest beneath all the language and humor he employs: "I may be mistaken, but it does seem to me that "Deerslayer" is not a work of art in any sense; it does seem to me that it is destitute of every detail that goes to the making of a work of art; in truth, it seems to me that "Deerslayer" is just simply a literary delirium tremens." (paragraph 51)

The above are just samples of Twain's wit and devotion to beautiful literature. For the full piece, visit it at the University of Virginia Library: Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses.

Till by broad spreading it disperses to naught.

I read an article by Terri Windling this afternoon that examines Rapunzel, the fairy tale. You can read it on the Journal of Mythic Arts' archive site, here: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Hair.

I remember having read a literary examination of Rapunzel before, but the woman in the tower never really caught my attention. I wrote essays about the madwoman in the attic, but never made a connection to the woman in the tower.

But the most interesting part of the essay (for me) was how Windling catalogues the watering-down of fairy tales. The originals are potent, meaning-laden tales that weren't simply crafted as a means to conveying a moral end - they were written for the beauty of the thing itself. And as they are picked down to the bones and restructured and bent to the shape of someone's political leanings over the centuries, they become sparse skeletons of what they once were. They become carriers for moral opinion, tools to convince children to behave.

I think it's a trend that is easily identifiable in thousands of aspects of modern life: we're wading through a mess of brittle, tired beauty. Kind of supports the deterioration of the universe theory, what's it called? Right. The Second Law of Thermodynamics. From order into disorder.

Glad I can be so chipper for you all this lovely, sunshiny Wednesday! Ha!

Truth is truth - to the end of reckoning.

Adaptation of a Stephen King quote: All fiction is a lie, and good fiction is the truth inside the lie.
I've found in past writing experiments (and we're talking strictly fiction, here, people - the stuff I really love) that the truth always shines through.
By truth I mean this: the things I believe, the principles I base my life on, the hardest core bits of me that will never break up no matter the intensity or pressure from the outside. I think we can argue that fiction is fabricated so it can be completely separated from the person who made it up (and we do argue this to protect ourselves - from pre-judgements, from pigeon-holing, from criticism).
But at the same time, I think it can be argued that creators - no matter what medium they use - must infuse the work with some of themselves. A sculptor cannot create a piece of art without touching the stone, running his hands over the planes and textures, dripping sweat onto its surface, scraping his knuckles against it. In the same way, a writer cannot write a piece of fiction without leaving traces of herself in the work.
I would have it no other way! While it makes the writing process infinitely more painful - picking at threads of your soul and weaving them into a story other than your own leaves you frayed, to say the least - the end result carries that ring of truth that we all search for in books. It becomes a human work that speaks the same language as its readers.

All of this is going somewhere, I promise.
I've been encouraged to join NaNoWriMo this year, and I have. I'm terrified. I don't think I've ever written for a month straight. I am full of stories, though, and the terror is tempered by a building excitement.
So if you're interested (thousands of people all over the world writing 50,000 words in one month? curious...!), you're welcome to follow me: here at the WriteMe blog and on Twitter @ScribbleMeJ. Beginning November 1st, this blog will be a scratch pad for the NaNo process. I'll try to get the fancy word count widgets and such, but I make no promises (I suck at computers).

By fairy hands their knell is rung.

I've been schooled this week.  In words, I mean.  And I totally blame being sick for my failing wits.

First, "soporific" means "sleep-inducing" (which even my mom knew!).  I guessed something along the lines of "droning," "over-indulged," or "soaking in."  [Editor's note: Just because I provide three different definitions for a word doesn't mean I'm confused.  It just means that I'm really good at making stuff up, and the stuff I make up is really creative and rather convincing.  You know you're jealous.]

Second, "querulous" means "contentious, prone to argument."  I was close with "whining, protesting; a feeble attempt at contradiction."

Third, I learned this morning that it's "jibe," not "jive."  As in, "The story you told about your mom's vacation doesn't jibe with the photographic evidence of her whereabouts that weekend."  And "jive" has always made so much sense!  (Think about it: dancing - one set of facts either dances well or doesn't with the second set of facts... Sad loss.)  Although it must be noted that I prefer the British English spelling of it to the American English: gybe vs. jibe.


In other news, I've had a lot of downtime this week (what with my mind being clogged and work being slow).  So I've indulged in a lot of fiction reading.

I re-discovered the Endicott Studio website, managed by Terri Windling, Ellen Datlow, and Ellen Kushner (to name a very few).  It is a collection of visual, literary, and academic explorations of the Mythic Arts - I've literally lost myself within the pages of it for the last week.  I've been reading through the Journal of Mythic Arts' fiction and non-fiction archives.  [Second Editor's Note: This site is of particular interest to me; my college thesis examined re-centering myth and fairy tale.  I've immersed myself in all things mythic for the last 6 years at least.]

So after reading all morning, I came home yesterday with a panicky urge to re-read my two favorite books of all time: The Hero & the Crown and The Blue Sword, both by Robin McKinley.  They were not on my shelves!  I searched, but know my book filing system, and they weren't there.  All I could conclude was I'd loaned them out (God knows why), and they hadn't come back (for the same reason most loaned books don't come back).  I penned the dogs in the kitchen and bolted to Grumpy's (my old place of employment and the nearest used bookstore), but only came up with The Hero & the Crown.  It will do for now, but I must find another copy of The Blue Sword - these are the only two books I've ever read more than once.  I must have them on hand at all times!  [Third Editor's Note: Only librophiles will understand this compulsion - I can't explain it.  But I have never felt more urgent about reading a book than I did yesterday.  And I couldn't rest until I'd found it.  I almost considered driving across town to the accursed McKay's.  Almost.]