INKBLOTS--New book, trenches, point-of-view, Shakespeare, and Lewis

Tommies in No Man's Land 100 years ago

Four gentlemen friends, a crackling fire on a blustery Pacific Northwest evening, Pinot Noir, Cabernet Savignon, and companionable discussion of books and writing. Life's simple pleasures. Doug McComas hosting at his country byre. He shared about a book he is reading on Channel Islands occupied by the Nazis during World War II. Congratulations to Bob; he passed around a copy of his new book The Crescent and The Cross for our inspection, and we talked about the process and the high quality of the end result.

Doug Mc reads from his WW I backstory novel to his World War II yarns told from the perspective of the Germans (not all of whom were Nazis). Training for the trenches, name of chapter, set in Fall 1914, a few months into the war. Hubert. Could you use some brief German for authenticity? You are using the plural 'They' which feels to me like you are shifting from Hubert or Sepp to everybody. For example, you said 'they turned their heads, including Sepp.' Would it be better to say something more like, 'Sepp turned his head, trying to mimic what the man on either side of him did.' It is difficult for the reader to see the world through the eyes of 'they,' but far more authentic to see the world through the eyes of a specific character. He (the drill officer) showed his men, might be better, Sepp and Hubert learned how to ... I think it's point of view that I'm thinking of here; stick with your lens (or lenses). I felt like more smells, using simile--or other imaginative comparison.

Bob felt like it was fluid. He wished he had something he could say to improve it but he couldn't. This was a basic training episode. Bob concurred that this is what it is like in basic training. John said he didn't really feel like he could see the setting, what it was like. John recollected something he read from Stephen King about striking the mark on the right amount of description. Decide what needs description and what needs less. Certain things are essential and important to the central problem of the tale that effects the protagonist.

John read a politically correct bed time story, a model of how not to tell a compelling story, though humorous satirical spoofs on the devastating effects of the liberal agenda on literature (and by extension, everything else).

I read the chapter from War in the Wasteland that I have struggled with, a necessary breakaway from the Front to a field hospital. Chapter had gotten way too long, with discussion of 'whoremaster man' in King Lear (reading the play during their stay in hospital), and I was chafing the whole time I was writing it because I wanted to get back to the rising action at the Front. The chapter as it reads right now reflects my angst. But the gentlemen gave me helpful suggestions. Great evening.

Here's an excerpt from the troublesome chapter. Hoping and praying for a satisfying resolution to my frustration this morning, one that will make this a best chapter rather than merely a necessary one:

Next morning, with a yawn, Lieutenant Lewis observed, “The human whisper is a very tedious and unmusical noise.” He yawned again. “Especially so at night. How they expect us to recover whilst lovers carry on through the night disturbing our rest, is beyond me. But it’s a small price to pay, wouldn’t you agree Private Hopkins, for cleanliness, hot food, and a warm bed far from the Front?”

Nigel nodded and murmured agreement.

His second lieutenant seemed in a chatty mood and continued. “Since my childhood, I have learned to make a minor illness into one of life’s pleasures, very much like heaven—if there was such a place.”

Nigel sat up and looked around the field hospital. With a shrug, he said, “It is a bit cleaner.” 

“A bit? It’s infinitely so,” said Lewis. “Though it may fall a bit short when compared with the spit-and-polish of a peace-time hospital back in England, after what we’ve been living in at the Front, it is the epitome of warmth and cleanliness. Sniff the air, Private. Oh, all right, all right, a bit stale, but a world apart from the bad food, unwashed bodies, open latrines, and the decomposition of the unfortunates. But think of it, man! Our new duty, yours and mine, fleeting duty though it be, our duty is to lie about on a warm bed with clean sheets, being waited on hand and foot by England’s best. Here comes one of them now.”

INKBLOTS--Help me find the right WWI book title!

Inkblots gathering under sunny blue skies and springtime. It's finally come. Thank you, Lord. Cotes du Catalenes, courtesy of John Schrupp and Jeff Jauvert. Five men. Good discussion of IBP prospects and plans. Carl leads off with another of his country parson James-Herriot-esque reflections on ministry in rural Grays Harbor County, Washington.

Cougar snarling in the timber near their remote home, surrounded by dense forest. Had their dog become the cougar's midnight snack? And there were the chickens. And there is the menagerie of cats, one of whom Carl was secretly hoping the cougar had taken a fancy to. These are first-person accounts, conveyed in an engaging almost chatty style, with easy application to Scripture and lesson to be drawn. Where are you going? How in our haste we fail to plan, be prudent, in our daily life and walk of faith, failing to grasp the reality of what we're doing or entering into. I look forward to the completion of this reflection. "Are you going to go look at that?" asked Carl's wife. "Are you going to come back?" she added.

Doug Mac suggested that Carl not let it out too soon that it is a cougar. Give the information incrementally, bit by bit, before you let it out to the reader that is is a cougar. We discussed the importance of reading aloud with our children, with out families.

Return to Tarawa, chapter 19, first-person elderly veteran recollecting blow-by-blow the conflict. Would an older, more mature, Christian man who had spent his life sharing the gospel as a missionary in the South Pacific, would he show more compassion on the dead Japanese strewn about the battle field? I would suggest showing more of the complication at the death of the enemy for a Christian. Wounded soldier bleeding to death, his friend full of emotion, and grieving the death of another companion. Doug Mac found some awkward syntax by reading aloud. Wipe away tears. Could you vary this with wiping his sleeve across his face, sweat dripping from face. I am really excited about this book. Doug Mac writes with vast knowledge of weaponry and warfare, with grit and realism, but with deep tenderness for the plight of fallen human beings caught in the grinding maw of war.

Next I read from chapter two of my forthcoming War in the Wasteland (or Surprised by War, or This is War, or... Help me out, here!). As they did last week, the 'Blots gents gave me helpful push back and suggestions. Which I am setting to work on at this moment. Here's a rough-draft sample:

Help me out with title suggestions for my WW I novel

2

Sauerkraut Spy

“Halt!” barked a sergeant. “And what precisely is it we ‘ave ‘ere?”

Nigel swallowed hard, clutching tighter to Bullet’s lead. “A dog, Sir,” he managed.

Sneering, the sergeant retorted, “A dog? And might I make so bold as to inquire,” his voice rising to vein-bulging shouting, “just what is it you think you’re doing bringing a dog on my boat?”

It was the moment Nigel had dreaded. For three weeks he had managed to keep Bullet concealed. It had been easier than he had feared. It turned out that other Tommies liked dogs too and had helped keep the dog from discovery. But he knew it couldn’t last forever.

“He’s keen, Sir, quite keen,” said Nigel.

“Keen, is he?” snarled the sergeant, looking with revulsion at the scruffy terrier. “That’s as may be. But keen compared to what? A rat? If that cur happens to be smarter than it looks—which I doubt—it may be keen at herding sheep, chasing rabbits, at working the farm. But this is war, boy!”

A low growl rumbled in Bullet’s throat. With a glance from Nigel, the dog sat on his haunches and was silent. Staring through a wiry, unruly mop of coarse gray hair, the dog fixed his eyes unblinking on the sergeant. At rigid attention, not another sound came from the animal.

“This is war, my boy,” repeated the sergeant, lowering his voice and feigning a paternal tone. “You’re not embarking on a holiday in Flanders’ fields. Your pets stay home—in England! Am I making myself perfectly clear?” He was shouting again. Shouting seemed to come naturally to the man.

“H-he’s not only keen, Sir,” stammered Nigel. “He’s well-tutored.”

“Well-tutored, is it! My great aunt was well-tutored, but do you see her on a lead, tail wagging, marching up the gangplank to war? No, of course you do not! Well-tutored, bah!”

INKBLOTS, arrogant scientist, Russian governess, Indian culture, and Vietnam

Dr. Wolfe, scientist devoid of humility

Inkblots with five gents this evening, warm sunshine and spring birds flitting and singing on the wisteria at the Bond's gate. Maryhill red and Columbia Crest Amitage all around.

I commented about authentic integration of our writing. Writing what we need rather than trying to please either secularist (and so feel like we need to paste in sketchy material), or the story somehow does not include a gospel priority but the writer feels like it ought to, so he pastes in some Christian lingo to check that box. None of this is good for fiction writing, for compelling story telling, nor is it good for the gospel. I believe the gospel is absolutely my highest priority when I write anything, and I hope that that means it is so integral and essential to where I'm going in the fiction, every detail subordinate to the glory of God, that the story would not be complete, would not work, would be empty and shallow, without leaving the reader longing for truth, heart sick for it. Imagine Jesus telling a parable to titillate secularists or to paste in a Christian message as an obligatory afterthought. Christ's parables, his story telling, was a unified whole, every imaginative device, every detail, marshaled to unmask the problem and placard its only solution.

Alan leads off with a poem he has written that reminds me of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Hiawatha from the shores of Gitche Gumee, musical and lyric. Alan read without prelude, no explanation, just launched in. It was magical. After he told us it was autobiographical, inspired by an incident in his life, an uncle who passed away and at his funeral just this week he met another relative; conversation with him led to this prose experiment in an effort to find his way into his fiction work shared recently. Patrick commented on balsam and rock, used repetitively, so it seemed but maybe intentional. All this led into a discussion of Indian culture then and now.

Patrick says his problem is too much material, very fertile times for his imagination lately, it sounds like to me. He has been inspired by author Gene Wolfe. Wolfe wrote a series of stories with key words woven in throughout. Dr. Wolfe and Island of Death, is the name of the story. Felt like it should be a journal but doesn't like the style because it lacks the interactive character of dialogue. What a crack-up! Programmed dialogue between a computer Dante and a pompous scientist, about another scientist who has been stealing or plagiarizing from Dr. Wolfe. Reporters and journalists are found to be the most unreliable witnesses. Willingly deceive. I love the fluidity of your prose, personality coming through clearly through tone of voice, asides, and witty quips. This is one in a series of intriguing short stories, maybe a bit longish for short stories, the largest being 13,000. Alan suggested that his reading group (Who, what, when, where, and wine) read Patrick's short stories and offer their thoughts and reactions.

Doug Mc suggested that we can reconfigure what we do at least some of the time. What if one guy sent out a chapter or short story to all and then we read and came together to critique and comment on the whole story rather than just a ten minute read. Doing Patrick's yarn first this way. Dougie is doing a further episode in his Vietnam yarn, Bruce the hick is reading World Book Encyclopedia then distilling it in his colloquial drawl. Vietnam peasant featured in this episode. What is raspberry and cinnamon that is French in the pastry department? The French and German conversation is a good idea, but I'm not sure if you got everything out of it that was there. The prayer and the Amen came out of order to my thinking. He went on asking for a speedy conclusion to the hostilities, and then the Amen at the end, not first. The background to the history of the conflict does drag a bit in my opinion. I think you need to tighten it up a bit, give us the essential facts only. Maybe you're trying to give us too much all at once here. Could you spread it out, parse it out over more conversations than just this one? Avoid the history bomb, laying out a body of historical context but that is not actually a genuine part of the fiction. Give the reader only what is essential to know at this point in the yarn, the reader wanting more, will read on, then give them more as it is essential to the tale itself. Have the listener receive it, disagree with it, push back in his thinking. Make the history background essential to the fiction you're telling.

I commented about authentic integration of our writing. Writing what we need rather than trying to please either secularist (and so feel like we need to paste in sketchy material), or the story somehow does not include a gospel priority but the writer feels like it ought to, so he pastes in some Christian lingo to check that box. None of this is good for fiction writing, for compelling story telling, nor is it good for the gospel. I believe the gospel is absolutely my highest priority when I write anything, and I hope that that means it is so integral and essential to where I'm going in the fiction, every detail subordinate to the glory of God, that the story would not be complete, would not work, would be empty and shallow, without leaving the reader longing for truth, heart sick for it. Imagine Jesus telling a parable to titillate secularists or to paste in a Christian message as an obligatory afterthought. Christ's parables, his story telling, was a unified whole, every imaginative device, every detail, marshaled to placard the problem and its only solution.

John reads from his Russian yarn. Working on altering the governess so she could be a Huguenot working for a Russian family. Problem of getting Russian down fluently when coming as a French speaker. What is your narrative objective for developing her character? What is her primary role in the story line? All fiction is a contrivance; it is the author's task to convince the reader that the contrivance is authentic, that it works, all skepticism gone.

INKBLOTS--Amazingly stimulating critique and discussion

How to write like a big shot

INKBLOTS—Amitage red and Red Rock for our libation tonight and six gents sitting down to fellowship, discuss literature, read what we’re working on, and do a good bit of laughing for good measure.

As I listen to the perspective and perceptions of my fellow Inkblots I am reminded again of just how important a writing group like this is. I can’t fully describe what I’m hearing and the benefit to my own writing. Moments like this make me wonder how I’ve ever managed to write anything worth reading without these gentlemen—and friends. Sounds a bit sappy maybe, but I’m telling you what is really going on in this room right now...

David (who has been working swing shift for a year and has just rejoined us—welcome back) reads the first chapter of another speculative fiction novel he is working on. The protagonist is trying to work up his nerve to propose to his girlfriend, but is so stressed he is almost physically ill. The protagonist is an assassin. The irony of a man being a trained killer for his day job but who is about to throw up with anxiety about proposing… or did I miss something? She figures out that he’s going to propose to her. The plethora of names when they meet Steven the assassin stalking them is confusing to me. Maybe clarified by larger context. Who are we supposed to care about in this conflict, Steven? But we were inside Bruce’s and Alexis’s head and then they were gone, one killed and the other hauled off in the car. Patrick thought that D used the phrase ‘Big Boy’ too much, and the switching of point of view is confusing. Does D give away what the assassin is doing following the couple by switching perspectives? Alan suggested that the tension could be increased by having the couple get to their favorite high cliff vista and then the struggle comes on the brink of the cliff, more threat, more potential danger, increase the tension. Patrick reminded us of Alfred Hitchcock’s method in one of his old films where it opens with a dude rigging a bomb in the trunk of a car and then it cuts to the young couple driving the car for quite awhile, the viewer going nuts with suspense. Dramatic irony creates this. The reader knowing more than the characters. Increase tension by including other hikers on the trail, the threat of discovery heightened.

Alan is shelving his Irish epic poem and his early church novel—we all protested! These were fascinating. But Alan said the research was too extensive and his time prolonged it so that it was too difficult to write the story while working, being a dentist, day job intrudes again. Alan is using a typewriter, yes, you heard me, a typewriter; you know, the mechanical thing you see in museums. His argument is that he finds the physical process of composing on the computer is so limitless, he finds himself on all kinds of possible rabbit trails that he would not have followed if he was on a typewriting, so he is. This is Cascadia, about David Douglas the botanist who named the Douglas fir and the Cascade Mountains, for all the cascading waterfalls. This is charming regional material, over-looming mountain, Tahoma dominating all the coastal cities, Seattle, etc. Alan is reading from a piece of what is called paper, you know, flat white pulpy stuff harvested from trees, often with lines and little black squiggles, paper and real typed letters from a typewriter. This is not a chapter one, but a preface, setting the stage for the yarn to follow. Alpine setting ... Is this sort of a Pacific Northwest Wind in the Willows, animals with human characteristics? This is a journey tale. Alan is going to use Chinook Jargon but esque so that it can be understood by the English reader. I suggest taking the fantastic description of the preface but integrating into the point of view of a bard ... who is receiving the effects of the environment around them and telling back-story and history to young... listeners. Alan suggest having his raven be the omniscient vantage point for them, he flies, and can give them perspective these little creatures cannot have.

Patrick says he needs to rewrite everything he’s ever written (that’s what I call humility; maybe we would all be better off if we felt like this more often, then again, I would probably never get anything written if I didn’t delude myself into thinking it’s great stuff, ugh). We move from Adam and St-eve. This is a different tack. Non-fiction, The Little Book of Legalism (I suggested, the Idiot’s Guide to Legalism, which doesn’t quite work, because it suggests that getting our minds, wills, and motivations around this intriguing thing called legalism is actually difficult, which it isn’t, if history teaches us anything about the church in every age—my thoughts). Gospel centered story—Christ’s mercy, atoning sacrifice and imputed righteousness--is the only solution, but we revert to legalisms every time. It’s way easier. Patrick nails it. Legalism is not ambitious obedience, but is actually a form of rebellion, perhaps the most ubiquitous form. Legalism is bad enough, but the fight against legalism itself can easily become navel gazing, yet another side door into… legalism. Legalism is self-righteousness, a vice that presents itself as a virtue—a great line, step aside Tim Keller! Legalism is the darkest and deadliest sin, the worst and most sinister of sins. It inoculates the heart against all the cures, true repentance… Patrick, you are on to something here, big time. Something very important. Keep writing. Use your voice to expose this “devil with a smiling cheek” (The Bard).

We moved, naturally, into a discussion of legalism, how earnest Christians who really care about life lived God’s way, a Christian world view, a morally upright culture, about raising our children to live God’s way, a political system reflective of God’s will and way, are in great peril of skirting around grace and the gospel and setting up lists of dos and don’ts for all practical purposes, what our children see—and revolt against. The pendulum can swing to the next generation thinking they can do anything and presume on “grace” to cover it all.

Dougie Mac reads his Vietnam War yarn. If there’s no other benefit to any of us in INKBLOTS it’s the fascinating range of compounded historical research represented and shared in this sitting room right at this moment. Can you show us the detail of his wave at the bus driver more carefully? I missed the nuance that I could feel was almost there but not quite (for me). When he sees the turkey across the road and has a moment of thinking about the war and what might happen to him, could you have him reflect on this slightly more, not too much, but I feel like you might have missed an opportunity there. Your dialogue has become so fluid, I can hear it and feel it. Seriously, D Mac, I am so drawn into this dialogue, colloquial to a fault. Golf not violent enough. Football’s the thing. You do a good job of exposing the transition from the activities of high school, band playing the sousaphone, and war around the corner, M16 in hand, Viet Cong and AK-47s in the jungle on every side. I don’t listen to it don’t mean I don’t listen to it.  Alan felt like when D Mac started bringing God into the dialogue he blew the candle out, lost the authenticity; it stood out as if it was obligatory to include it but was not fitting with the characters as he had developed them. Patrick feels like he missed an opportunity by not including a girl interest, either his buddies accuse him of liking a girl or he admits to going hippie to hook up with a certain girl.

As I listen to the perspective and perceptions of my fellow Inkblots I am reminded again of just how important a writing group like this is. I can’t really fully describe what I’m hearing and the benefit to my own writing. Moments like this make me wonder how I’ve ever managed to write anything worth reading without these gentlemen—and friends. Sounds a bit sappy maybe, but I’m telling you what is really going on in this room right now.

John reads where he left off on a really critical episode in his Russian tale. There is a girl in immediate peril from lecherous soldiers, and just as we are certain she is going to violated, their captain intrudes and defends the woman and stops his men, ordering them to feed her and treat her with respect, not as an animal, or as if they were animals. Is Missy what they would call her? What does cheap vodka smell like? I don’t drink vodka so I’m asking a real question, though it may not be a big deal at all. Her thanking them seemed out of place; I wonder if she would not be still so terrified of these soldiers, now drunk, that she would be speechless. Her breath like a man under a heavy burden does not work so well, I think. Similes need more disconnect to work; try a cornered animal on the hunt, you fill in the type of animal. This is a good escape moment, but I think it needs an increment where the reader wonders if she will get away. First person but you move to third person narration. I’m not sure that works, it breaks the authenticity. How could they be more Russian, what they eat, could it be more Russian, and other cultural connections, singing, drinking songs that are Russian, and dancing a unique Russian way. These soldiers are too generic. Don’t miss the opportunity of creating genuine ethnic distinctions and don’t miss making these men as different from each other, unique characters, maybe one is reluctant to chase the girl and brings up their wives at home, their daughters. The other poo-poos and could care less about his wife or this girl; all he cares about is his urges, while his comrade has some degree of conscience. We learn that his wife is dead, but he has three daughters, one about the age of the girl prisoner. Make it real—desire and restraint, wanting but what about the eye of God.