As I've been wading through my mountain of Victorian Sensation Fiction, in particular Wilkie Collins, I've found myself to be more than a little disturbed and distracted. It's not like reading a conventional modern horror book whereby shocks and disturbance are part and parcel of the experience. It all works on a more discreet level and after years of soundish sleep after reading novels I suddenly find myself scanning the room for unfamiliar shadows and listening out for noises.
So how does Collins, a writer who died 120 years ago, manage to disturb a modern reader? I think it lies in his characterisation.
The events of his novels can be considered quite predictable I suppose. A reader today, well-versed with narrative techniques and willing to pay attention to Collins' exceptional grasp of foreshadowing, would have little trouble deciphering most of his plots. It is the startling personalities he brings to life on the page that really demonstrate his genius.
The most obvious, of course, is Anne Catherick, the woman in white herself. From the first depiction of her in the dead of night she is a mysterious and alarming figure. The Woman in White is full of them. The devious Count Fosco is a brilliant villain who plots and schemes whilst also acknowledging admiration for the manly Marian Halcombe. In fact, it feels to me that the least-rounded and interesting of all the characters in the novel are Walter Hartright and Laura Fairlie, the couple whose happiness the novel is essentially centred around. It's no secret that antagonists are more interesting characters to write but Collins seemed to take in delight in writing not only his antagonists but his helpers and secondary characters alike.
The Law and the Lady is one of his lesser-known novels. It revolves around a newlywed, Valeria, discovering her husband stood trial for poisoning his first wife and wasn't entirely exonerated. Her resolve to prove his innocence leads her on quest which brings her into contact with two extraordinary characters - Miserrimus Dexter and his cousin/slave, Ariel.
Dexter is an attractive but severely deformed man. From birth he has had no lower limbs, a condition that has resulted in an eccentricity which becomes gradually more pronounced throughout the novel. At Valeria's first meeting with him she finds him gliding along in his chair, taking on the parts of Napoleon and Shakespeare in succession. He becomes, by degrees, the most disturbing of creatures and one of the most memorable characters Collins ever created. The image of him hopping down a corridor on his hands to make up for his lack of legs is one which will stay with me for a while. His servant, Ariel, is categorised mainly by her devotion to this strange man. She becomes jealous of Valeria, wanting to be the only one to brush his beard, and she insists on smelling her hands before she leaves to check for the smell of him. All in all, this pair are both fascinating and concerning.
Finally, I'd like to return to The Haunted Hotel, a short novel by Collins I reviewed a few weeks ago. Agnes Lockwood, the heroine, isn't as transparent a character as, say, Laura Fairlie, but, again, she seems pale in comparison to the anatagonist, Countess Narona. Although the reader cares about Agnes they are certainly more interested in the unfolding mysteries and the characters which surround them.
I'd say that Collins' strength lies in a perfect melding of character and plot. The character of Miserrimus Dexter would not be half as fascinating if he wasn't so closely entwined with the mystery of the novel, for instance. He could be brought in as a humorous character elsewhere but his power lies in his ability to disturb the reader. Equally, Count Fosco had to play an integral part in the mystery of the woman in white whom Walter Hartright encountered - less would've felt like a waste of the extraordinary character.
So what can we learn from Collins? Take your character from your plot and your plot from your character. Unless you're writing a very formulaic story where your plot is by far the most important aspect why not try and meld the two together? If Wilkie Collins managed to create characters which still distract a twenty-first century girl from her sleep then it has to be worth a try.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Book Review: The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry
This book was once I bought ages ago as part of a buy-one-get-one-free offer. It was Costa Book of the Year 2008 and was shortlisted for the Man Booker. All in all, it seemed to have a good pedigree.
To start with, the prose is exceptionally well-written: it flows, it captures the two narrators, Roseanne and Dr Grene in their distinctive voices, and the differentiation between the two is subtle but sharp. It reads like an early twentieth-century novel - which is fortunate as half of the book is set back there.
It follows the story of Roseanne Clear as she records her memories onto paper in the confines of the asylum that has been her home for many years. Meanwhile, Dr Grene frets about the closure of the hospital and moving patients that were detained for social rather than psychological reasons back into the community. He is also struggling with his own personal problems. The narrative flits between Roseanne's testimony of herself and Dr Grene's commonplace book, intertwining themes and plot as it goes. Structurally, it's an excellent novel.
Furthermore, there are some truly memorable scenes in there. One horrific scene recounts Roseanne's troublesome childbirth, but in a subtle manner which has none of the sensationalism one might expect from a lesser writer. Another scene, where Dr Grene hears a voice where there couldn't possibly be one, is equally chilling and touching. The novel is full of little moments like this which conspire to make a coherent whole.
So what was my problem?
Well, it rests with the 'secret' at the heart of the novel. I won't ruin it but I honestly guessed what it was all about fairly early on. In itself that isn't necessarily a bad thing. The book is well-written enough for a reader to simply enjoy the elegant prose. Had I begun to read it with that in mind I wouldn't have felt as disappointed as I had when I finally put the book down.
Worth a read, definitely, but don't expect too much towards the end.
To start with, the prose is exceptionally well-written: it flows, it captures the two narrators, Roseanne and Dr Grene in their distinctive voices, and the differentiation between the two is subtle but sharp. It reads like an early twentieth-century novel - which is fortunate as half of the book is set back there.
It follows the story of Roseanne Clear as she records her memories onto paper in the confines of the asylum that has been her home for many years. Meanwhile, Dr Grene frets about the closure of the hospital and moving patients that were detained for social rather than psychological reasons back into the community. He is also struggling with his own personal problems. The narrative flits between Roseanne's testimony of herself and Dr Grene's commonplace book, intertwining themes and plot as it goes. Structurally, it's an excellent novel.
Furthermore, there are some truly memorable scenes in there. One horrific scene recounts Roseanne's troublesome childbirth, but in a subtle manner which has none of the sensationalism one might expect from a lesser writer. Another scene, where Dr Grene hears a voice where there couldn't possibly be one, is equally chilling and touching. The novel is full of little moments like this which conspire to make a coherent whole.
So what was my problem?
Well, it rests with the 'secret' at the heart of the novel. I won't ruin it but I honestly guessed what it was all about fairly early on. In itself that isn't necessarily a bad thing. The book is well-written enough for a reader to simply enjoy the elegant prose. Had I begun to read it with that in mind I wouldn't have felt as disappointed as I had when I finally put the book down.
Worth a read, definitely, but don't expect too much towards the end.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Book Review: The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins
I'd almost made it a rule not to review any book I read related to my Ph.D because I know Victorian fiction can be... stale, shall we say, to most people. However, when I finished The Haunted Hotel last night, a relatively short work by Wilkie Collins, I was terrified. I was so disturbed that I was extremely reluctant to turn the light off, and I can honestly say that's something I haven't experienced through a book before.
The beauty of The Haunted Hotel is that it doesn't rush to explain everything. It's essentially an old-fashioned ghost story, set partially in Venice, which relies on both psychological manipulation and the depiction of truly gruesome images.
I have to say, I was unsure about the first couple of chapters which focus chiefly on one of the antagonists of the novel, Countess Narona. I honestly felt a little cheated when I discovered she was embroiled in the mystery but Collins had a reason for everything. The beginning, therefore, is a trip through the family history of Lord Montbarry, Countess Narona's fiancée, which can seem to detract from the main event but is merely delaying the deliciousness of the plot proper.
Agnes Lockwood is the heroine of the story, a woman in love with Lord Montbarry before he marries the Countess. After his death at a hotel in Venice she finds herself unable to let go of his memory and marry his brother, Henry, despite being jilted by the Lord. She takes up work as a governess and when the family go to Venice they find themselves in the very hotel in which the Lord died.
I refuse to ruin the plot but I will say this: it may not be the gory shock-shock-shock of a modern horror novel but the quiet, steady build of Collins' narrative is positively more disturbing. The ghostly images which wouldn't be so frightening on their own are coupled with grotesque discoveries that root them firmly in reality.
It's a short novel - my compact copy is 190 pages - but I'd call it a book to read if you don't like reading Victorian fiction. It feels extremely modern in parts, like CSI in the 19th century.
The beauty of The Haunted Hotel is that it doesn't rush to explain everything. It's essentially an old-fashioned ghost story, set partially in Venice, which relies on both psychological manipulation and the depiction of truly gruesome images.
I have to say, I was unsure about the first couple of chapters which focus chiefly on one of the antagonists of the novel, Countess Narona. I honestly felt a little cheated when I discovered she was embroiled in the mystery but Collins had a reason for everything. The beginning, therefore, is a trip through the family history of Lord Montbarry, Countess Narona's fiancée, which can seem to detract from the main event but is merely delaying the deliciousness of the plot proper.
Agnes Lockwood is the heroine of the story, a woman in love with Lord Montbarry before he marries the Countess. After his death at a hotel in Venice she finds herself unable to let go of his memory and marry his brother, Henry, despite being jilted by the Lord. She takes up work as a governess and when the family go to Venice they find themselves in the very hotel in which the Lord died.
I refuse to ruin the plot but I will say this: it may not be the gory shock-shock-shock of a modern horror novel but the quiet, steady build of Collins' narrative is positively more disturbing. The ghostly images which wouldn't be so frightening on their own are coupled with grotesque discoveries that root them firmly in reality.
It's a short novel - my compact copy is 190 pages - but I'd call it a book to read if you don't like reading Victorian fiction. It feels extremely modern in parts, like CSI in the 19th century.
Monday, 26 July 2010
Unintended Imagery
It's one of the most surprising things in my writing experience - reading through a manuscript and discovering a set of images you never intended to be there.
Actually, though, I'm of the opinion that it's been the norm for writers for quite some time. I extol the classics - Fielding, Dickens, Mary Elizabeth Braddon - but I don't honestly believe they had much more of a clue than we did. I can't deny they wrote fabulous novels but some of those things we pore over? Not completely deliberate.
I've just completed the final read-through of my manuscript. I was amazed as I read aloud how many references to graveyards and death I'd littered around the text without even noticing. Yes, my main location was a converted church but, beyond that, I had corpse imagery in a bar, spectral imagery in the street - it all seemed to mix together delightfully.
The key is to spot it early. You might've peppered a couple of recurring images throughout your WIP but if you recognise and grasp it you can easily enhance it, make it into a prolonged image that has a bearing on your main plot.
My preoccupation with death was more than just my brain being creepy. My protagonist was a bit of a recluse, living in this converted church and painting constantly. Although it wasn't a deliberate decision to coat the text with graveyard imagery it certainly fits with her personality and the dilemma her love interest has in trying to prise her out of there.
Once I spotted it I had to run with it. I can't be sure - I accept I'm too close to this novel at the moment - but I think it enhances the overall effect. I do love my subconscious sometimes.
Actually, though, I'm of the opinion that it's been the norm for writers for quite some time. I extol the classics - Fielding, Dickens, Mary Elizabeth Braddon - but I don't honestly believe they had much more of a clue than we did. I can't deny they wrote fabulous novels but some of those things we pore over? Not completely deliberate.
I've just completed the final read-through of my manuscript. I was amazed as I read aloud how many references to graveyards and death I'd littered around the text without even noticing. Yes, my main location was a converted church but, beyond that, I had corpse imagery in a bar, spectral imagery in the street - it all seemed to mix together delightfully.
The key is to spot it early. You might've peppered a couple of recurring images throughout your WIP but if you recognise and grasp it you can easily enhance it, make it into a prolonged image that has a bearing on your main plot.
My preoccupation with death was more than just my brain being creepy. My protagonist was a bit of a recluse, living in this converted church and painting constantly. Although it wasn't a deliberate decision to coat the text with graveyard imagery it certainly fits with her personality and the dilemma her love interest has in trying to prise her out of there.
Once I spotted it I had to run with it. I can't be sure - I accept I'm too close to this novel at the moment - but I think it enhances the overall effect. I do love my subconscious sometimes.
Friday, 23 July 2010
Classic Openings: The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters
The Little Stranger is the latest offering from Sarah Waters, the reigning queen of period fiction as far as I'm concerned. Although I've noticed that fans of Waters either love or loathe it I found it an entrancing read. As it was shortlisted for the 2009 Man Booker Prize I think the critics are in agreement!
The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters
I first saw Hundreds Hall when I was ten years old. It was the summer after the war, and the Ayreses still had most of their money then, were still big people in the district. The event was in Empire Day fete: I stood with a line of other village children making a Boy Scout salute while Mrs Ayres and the Colonel went past us, handing out commemorative medals; afterwards we sat to tea with our parents at long tables on what I suppose was the south lawn. Mrs Ayres would have been twenty-four or -five, her husband a few years older; their little girl, Susan, would have been about six. They must have made a very handsome family, but my memory of them is vague. I recall most vividly the house itself, which struck me as an absolute mansion. I remember its lovely ageing details: the worn red brick, the cockled window glass, the weathered sandstone edgings. They made it look blurred and slightly uncertain - like an ice, I thought, just beginning to melt in the sun.
1. First point, Waters introduces the main character here - though it may not look like it. Hundreds Hall is so central to the novel I don't hesitate in calling it a primary character. It is described, analysed and utilised more than any person really. And, to that end, Waters must focus on it in her first paragraph. By describing it through the eyes of a child she can portray it simplistically - but also with the value of hindsight. It's always important for an author to get retrospective viewpoints at just the right level between childish inference and adult interpretation but Waters has always been an expert at that.
2. Offering snippets of background. In this opening paragraph Waters overtly gives backstory to the reader about the Ayreses but it reads so smoothly that the reader doesn't notice. The voice is so easy to slip into that exposition doesn't feel so taxing. This is partly down to Waters' style but it's also due to good characterisation - Dr Faraday's narrative voice is there from the start.
3. Waters brings out the details. As Dr Faraday remembers the details of the house so he impresses them on the reader. It's an effective way of fixing something on the audience - they'll remember through a memory. At this stage, also, the reader is lapping up details. By picking up certain details on the very first page Waters can be confident they may be remembered. And, in this novel, everything seems to have an emotion attached.
Buy it here.
The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters
I first saw Hundreds Hall when I was ten years old. It was the summer after the war, and the Ayreses still had most of their money then, were still big people in the district. The event was in Empire Day fete: I stood with a line of other village children making a Boy Scout salute while Mrs Ayres and the Colonel went past us, handing out commemorative medals; afterwards we sat to tea with our parents at long tables on what I suppose was the south lawn. Mrs Ayres would have been twenty-four or -five, her husband a few years older; their little girl, Susan, would have been about six. They must have made a very handsome family, but my memory of them is vague. I recall most vividly the house itself, which struck me as an absolute mansion. I remember its lovely ageing details: the worn red brick, the cockled window glass, the weathered sandstone edgings. They made it look blurred and slightly uncertain - like an ice, I thought, just beginning to melt in the sun.
1. First point, Waters introduces the main character here - though it may not look like it. Hundreds Hall is so central to the novel I don't hesitate in calling it a primary character. It is described, analysed and utilised more than any person really. And, to that end, Waters must focus on it in her first paragraph. By describing it through the eyes of a child she can portray it simplistically - but also with the value of hindsight. It's always important for an author to get retrospective viewpoints at just the right level between childish inference and adult interpretation but Waters has always been an expert at that.
2. Offering snippets of background. In this opening paragraph Waters overtly gives backstory to the reader about the Ayreses but it reads so smoothly that the reader doesn't notice. The voice is so easy to slip into that exposition doesn't feel so taxing. This is partly down to Waters' style but it's also due to good characterisation - Dr Faraday's narrative voice is there from the start.
3. Waters brings out the details. As Dr Faraday remembers the details of the house so he impresses them on the reader. It's an effective way of fixing something on the audience - they'll remember through a memory. At this stage, also, the reader is lapping up details. By picking up certain details on the very first page Waters can be confident they may be remembered. And, in this novel, everything seems to have an emotion attached.
Buy it here.
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Settings of Your Scenes
I think the knowledge that your setting for any piece of fiction needs to be more than incidental is drummed into our heads enough.
Setting equals a realistic experience for the audience, drawing on the setting can lead to a richer experience... Yes, yes, yes, we know all that. The trouble for me at least is remembering that setting doesn't have to be an overarching thing. It can - and should - be utilised on a scene by scene basis. Make sure you have a reason for setting your scene in a given location. Does the location add to it, complicate it, or is it merely decoration?
My current project takes place in a small Lancashire town. That's the main setting. Within it there are a couple of core places where the bulk of events take place: a storage facility on an industrial estate, a bar and a cottage. These are - I hope!- sufficiently well-described and utilised and I know precisely why I set certain scenes in those locations.
But on several occasions I take my characters out of their element. Two such instances are a park scene and an unfamiliar pub scene. I picked the park because, dare I say it, I thought it sounded pretty for the kind of deep and meaningful my characters were due to have. That's all well and good but I used it only as a backdrop. In my first draft I expected the reader to fix on their idea of a park and that'd be it. Fair enough, most people have an image of a park in their heads. Yet there was more to do with the scene. By picking an aspect of the park and underlining it I tied the location to the thought-processes of the characters. Suddenly the setting was a participant in the scene.
As for the pub scene... well, that needs more work. It's an unfamiliar environment, something we writers should relish exploring. My protagonist has more of an opinion than she's expressing, I know that much. I just have to coax it out of her.
A couple of questions to ask if you think your setting is nothing but a backdrop:
1. Can you easily pick up the majority of the action and dialogue and shift it to another location? If you can then the setting probably doesn't influence the scene at all.
2. Does your chosen setting impact the characters at all? For maximum effect, does it take them out of their comfort zone and, if so, have you exploited that?
3. Are you relying too much on certain locations: could you mix it up a little?
Setting equals a realistic experience for the audience, drawing on the setting can lead to a richer experience... Yes, yes, yes, we know all that. The trouble for me at least is remembering that setting doesn't have to be an overarching thing. It can - and should - be utilised on a scene by scene basis. Make sure you have a reason for setting your scene in a given location. Does the location add to it, complicate it, or is it merely decoration?
My current project takes place in a small Lancashire town. That's the main setting. Within it there are a couple of core places where the bulk of events take place: a storage facility on an industrial estate, a bar and a cottage. These are - I hope!- sufficiently well-described and utilised and I know precisely why I set certain scenes in those locations.
But on several occasions I take my characters out of their element. Two such instances are a park scene and an unfamiliar pub scene. I picked the park because, dare I say it, I thought it sounded pretty for the kind of deep and meaningful my characters were due to have. That's all well and good but I used it only as a backdrop. In my first draft I expected the reader to fix on their idea of a park and that'd be it. Fair enough, most people have an image of a park in their heads. Yet there was more to do with the scene. By picking an aspect of the park and underlining it I tied the location to the thought-processes of the characters. Suddenly the setting was a participant in the scene.
As for the pub scene... well, that needs more work. It's an unfamiliar environment, something we writers should relish exploring. My protagonist has more of an opinion than she's expressing, I know that much. I just have to coax it out of her.
A couple of questions to ask if you think your setting is nothing but a backdrop:
1. Can you easily pick up the majority of the action and dialogue and shift it to another location? If you can then the setting probably doesn't influence the scene at all.
2. Does your chosen setting impact the characters at all? For maximum effect, does it take them out of their comfort zone and, if so, have you exploited that?
3. Are you relying too much on certain locations: could you mix it up a little?
Monday, 19 July 2010
'I've Seen This Somewhere Before...'
Foreshadowing is one of those things that rarely occurs in first drafts. Unless you've got the multi-tasking mind of a genius, that is. I barely manage to keep track of my characters, keep a vague idea of my plot, and grasp the realisation that I have to draw it to a conclusion at some point without worrying about the intricacies.
Then came the rewriting stage and I started panicking - yes, I was telling a story, but did my novel work on any other level. I was whining constantly to myself: I want to create something that'll last. Well, to be fair, isn't that what we all want?
Something that adds another dimension to a novel is foreshadowing. I'm a huge fan of Jessica Page Morrell's book Between the Lines, a masterclass in writing the subtle elements of fiction. Although many writing books can feel like repetitive wastes of time and money, this one gives practical advice and uses many examples to back up the theories.
According to Morrell, foreshadowing can be used to lay the groundwork for three specific things: set pieces, character transformations and secrets. The one that I've been focusing on in my latest rewrite is the notion of set pieces.
One dramatic scene towards the climax of my novel involves my heroine being thrown violently against a table, garnering herself a nasty head wound in the process. This action in itself is unsurprising given the situation but I wanted more so I dropped in clues along the way that everything was about to spiral out of control. More than this, I concocted a mirror scene to take place in an earlier chapter.
Lily, my heroine, has a perfectly plausible fall down some steps after suffering a night of panic and exhaustion. She is cleaned up by her friend, Marie, in a scene that foreshadows the aftermath of the table incident detailed above. By inserting this scene I aim to increase the tension a little as the reader realises that Lily isn't immune to injury. Also, I wanted the echoes in the second clean-up scene to confuse the reader. Marie's intentions are ambiguous throughout and I feel this unseats logic even more.
Added to this, screenwriters are often told to repeat important images. This fixes something of importance in the viewer's mind and highlights the significance of it. Marie's helping Lily says a lot about her as a character at both junctures.
See? Not something I could've accomplished in my first draft!
Something to try if you're struggling with foreshadowing is to imagine the individual beats along the way to a particular incident. If A has to happen for B to happen so that C can occur what about the bit between A and B? If it's exposition of some variety then perhaps it can be utilised to foreshadow forthcoming events as well as filling in backstory or plot detail.
Then came the rewriting stage and I started panicking - yes, I was telling a story, but did my novel work on any other level. I was whining constantly to myself: I want to create something that'll last. Well, to be fair, isn't that what we all want?
Something that adds another dimension to a novel is foreshadowing. I'm a huge fan of Jessica Page Morrell's book Between the Lines, a masterclass in writing the subtle elements of fiction. Although many writing books can feel like repetitive wastes of time and money, this one gives practical advice and uses many examples to back up the theories.
According to Morrell, foreshadowing can be used to lay the groundwork for three specific things: set pieces, character transformations and secrets. The one that I've been focusing on in my latest rewrite is the notion of set pieces.
One dramatic scene towards the climax of my novel involves my heroine being thrown violently against a table, garnering herself a nasty head wound in the process. This action in itself is unsurprising given the situation but I wanted more so I dropped in clues along the way that everything was about to spiral out of control. More than this, I concocted a mirror scene to take place in an earlier chapter.
Lily, my heroine, has a perfectly plausible fall down some steps after suffering a night of panic and exhaustion. She is cleaned up by her friend, Marie, in a scene that foreshadows the aftermath of the table incident detailed above. By inserting this scene I aim to increase the tension a little as the reader realises that Lily isn't immune to injury. Also, I wanted the echoes in the second clean-up scene to confuse the reader. Marie's intentions are ambiguous throughout and I feel this unseats logic even more.
Added to this, screenwriters are often told to repeat important images. This fixes something of importance in the viewer's mind and highlights the significance of it. Marie's helping Lily says a lot about her as a character at both junctures.
See? Not something I could've accomplished in my first draft!
Something to try if you're struggling with foreshadowing is to imagine the individual beats along the way to a particular incident. If A has to happen for B to happen so that C can occur what about the bit between A and B? If it's exposition of some variety then perhaps it can be utilised to foreshadow forthcoming events as well as filling in backstory or plot detail.
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