Muse

I went to a book club last night in a suburb of D. C.  to discuss my book, Receive Me Falling.  The novel is set on a haunted Caribbean sugar plantation in two time periods.

When I walked into the club, the hostess immediately handed me a rum drink that was mentioned in the book.  The table was set with candles and tropical flowers.  Then, she served us bouillabaisse, and salad with avocado and crab meat.

We had a very stimulating conversation about the book and many other interesting topics.  Finally, for dessert, we got the biggest treat of the night: A cake of my book!!!

Do you see why I love book clubs?!

My hands are shaking, my stomach hurts, and I haven’t slept well in a week.  I’m frantic when I’m not writing, I’m frantic when I am writing, and I still don’t know how it’s all going to turn out.

I’m talking about the climax of my book.

I had to apologize to my family on Monday because I was being quite nasty–snapping at people left and right for no good reason, and casting a general black cloud over the household–because I’m so distraught over what’s going on in my book.

Is this normal, or do I need to seek psychiatric help?  These are characters, after all–not real people, but I think what’s making me feel so awful is that this terrible hurricane in 1935 that I’m writing about DID happen. Hundreds of people died as a result of it.  My characters are going through it right now, and I don’t know which ones will make it.

When reading a book, have you ever gotten to the climax and you just couldn’t put it down, and if you had to, you were tethered to it throughout your day in everything you did?  That’s how it is for writers–at least, this writer.  I wish I could cut myself off from this book and come up for air, but I need to keep pushing through these scenes.  If I don’t, I won’t be able to reach the calm after the storm, and I desperately want to get there.

Writers, does this happen to you? (Please tell me I’m not alone.)

• Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
• The Reincarnationist by M. J. Rose
• The Last Will of Moira Leahy by Therese Walsh
• Tethered by Amy MacKinnon
• Thirsty by Kristin Bair O’Keeffe
• The Children’s Book by A. S. Byatt
• Angel Time by Anne Rice
• The Embers by Hyatt Bass
• The Help by Kathryn Stockett
• Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger
• The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
• An Echo in the Bone by Diana Gabaldon
• The People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
• South of Broad by Pat Conroy
• Under the Dome by Steven King
• The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry
• Julie and Julia by Julie Powell
• In the Company of the Courtesan by Sarah Dunant
• Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland
• Mistress of the Sun by Sandra Gulland
• Time of My Life by Allison Winn Scotch
• Girls in Trouble by Caroline Leavitt
• Precession by Abigail Arrington
• Career Renegade by Jonathan Fields
• The Last Dickens by Matthew Pearl
• An Uncommon History of Common Things by Bethanne Patrick
• Second Chance by Jane Green
• A Movable Feast by Ernest Hemingway (Newly revised edition)

In researching my novel in progress, I’ve read close to twenty books about Ernest Hemingway, and nearly all of his writings. What started as an interest grew to a passion. The passion crossed the border into obsession a few months ago. I’m now consumed with reading everything I can about EH during 1935–the year my book is set.

So imagine my profound joy when the husband of a woman hosting a book club for me last week put the book With Hemingway: A Year in Key West and Cuba in my hands.  The book club had read my first book, Receive Me Falling, and after we finished discussing it, I told them about my Hemingway novel.  When the guests left, the host’s husband told me he overheard the discussion, and thought I might like to borrow his book about a man who spent a year with Hemingway in Key West and Cuba.

Arnold Samuelson was a drifter and aspiring writer who read one of Hemingway’s short stories, and got it in his head that he’d travel to Key West and ask the writer to give him some tips.  Fully expecting to be turned away or given only an hour of EH’s time, Samuelson found himself employed as the night watchman and guard for EH’s boat, Pilar, for a dollar a day.  In addition to his employment, Samuelson got a year’s worth of fishing, life, and writing instruction from the famous author.  Samuelson’s children found their father’s writings about his year with Hemingway after Samuelson’s death, and published the novel posthumously.

There’s been a lot of buzz in the writing community about Steven King’s magnificent writing memoir, On Writing.  With Hemingway is the original On Writing.  I now consider it a must-read for writers, and I’m so grateful that I was given the opportunity to read it.  It was particularly meaningful to me because it gave the little details about EH’s everyday life in Key West that the biographers don’t disclose.  From the name of his cook to the lunches he liked to eat–I was given insight into EH’s day-to-day existence that will help authenticate my fictional portrayal of him.

I can’t explain to you what a treasure this book has been.  When you become obsessed with dead writers, things like this feel like a gift from the Muse.  Things like this feel like your subject wants you to know something else that you didn’t know before, so you can portray it well.

Below, I’ve included some quotes from the book that I found particularly interesting or helpful.  With Hemingway is out of print, but if you’re an EH aficionado, you can order it used from many online retailers.

*     *     *

• “The first draft of anything is shit.”       p. 11
• “If you use an outline, the reader can tell it.  The story is forced and unnatural.”      p. 43
• “Every day describe something you’ve seen so that the reader can see it and it becomes alive on paper.  That’s the way Flaubert taught Maupassant to write.  Describe anything—the car on the dock, a squall on the stream or a heavy sea.  Then try to get the emotion.”      p. 44
• “You aren’t God and you never judge a man.  You present him as he is and you let the reader judge.  A writer has to be made up of two different persons.  As a man you can be any kind of a son of a bitch you like, you can hate and condemn a person and shoot his head off the next time you see him, but as a writer you have got to see him absolutely as he is, you’ve got to understand his viewpoint completely and learn how to present him accurately without getting your own reactions mixed up in it before you can write about him.”      p. 63
• “Pick your vocabulary from the words you hear people speak in conversation.  They’ve stood the test of centuries.  The simple words are always the best.”       p. 177
• “In fiction, it’s what you leave out that counts.  Nine tenths of it has got to be beneath the surface.  That’s what gives dignity to a story.”      p. 178
• “Save your best stuff until you’ve learned how to rewrite it.  Wait until you’ve learned how to become detached.  In order to write tragedy you’ve got to be absolutely detached, no matter how much it hurts you.  Tragedy is the peak of the art and that’s the hardest thing there is to do.  You never lose a story by not writing it.”      p. 179
• “Writing prose is the hardest thing in the world…For Christ’s sake, don’t get discouraged!”      p. 180

Last night, I was able to catch a Carbon Leaf concert at Ram’s Head Onstage in Annapolis. I’ve seen CL many times, and it was their best show.  Though their songs range in style from rock, to folk, to Celtic, to Western, thematically they center around the seasons and cycles of life.

It’s hard to capture the emotional response live music evokes. The night, the drinking, and the good company added to a talented group of singer/songwriters make a special kind of magic.  At the risk of sounding melodramatic, it becomes an almost spiritual experience.

Carbon Leaf played a perfect blend of old songs, covers, and new songs from their recently released CD, Nothing Rhymes with Woman. The group opened acoustic and a cappella with their song of the lonely traveler in One Prairie Outpost.  The audience sang the chorus.  It was a like a small group around a campfire in hi-def, and was a beautiful way for the audience to connect with the group right from the start.  Their song X-Ray, a charming tribute to childhood summers full of “lightning bugs and locust shells” held the reverence and appreciation adulthood has for a happy youth, and some of the cheekiness of the Beatles’ Dear Prudence, which they also covered.  Another Man’s Woman blends humor with longing in the face of unquenchable desire.  They sang Pink about one of their young fan’s struggles with breast cancer.  Lake of Silver Bells–a Coldplay-esque song–might be the crown jewel of the new CD.

It occurred to me last night, that what makes all artists great–writers, musicians, poets, painters, etc.–is their believability.   If an artist attempts to convey something as they think it should be, rather than as it is, the work suffers. Hemingway’s line about writing “one, true sentence” rang in my head listening to Carbon Leaf, because that is what they do. They have a gift for capturing truth in their music.  I believe them in every song.

I encourage you to check out their website and try to catch a show some time.  They’ll be in New York at the Bowery Ballroom next weekend, and in DC for New Year’s Eve.  You won’t be disappointed.

The Triumph of Deborah, by Eva Etzioni-Halevy, was published in 2008.  Ms. Etzioni-Halevy sent me the book for review, and I’m delighted that she did.

I’ve been enjoying a lot of Biblical historical fiction these days, and this book is no exception.  Written in the style of The Red Tent or Sarah, The Triumph of Deborah uses everyday interactions, love stories, domestic and epic conflict to expand and animate Bible stories.  We know so much of the men of the bible, and so little of the women, and these novels serve to show the cultural and familial importance of the women.

To me, the book is primarily about two women: Deborah, a revered Israelite judge, and Nogah, a woman born of a Canaanite king and an Israeli slave.  Deborah is divorced by her husband when she shows preference for a young, Israelite warrior named Barak. Barak leads the Israelites to victory, and returns with both the acknowledged daughter and slave daughter of the slain Canaanite king.  A complicated love triangle follows between Barak and the women.  It concludes with a deeply satisfying ending in which all of the characters experience growth and redemption.

Ms. Etzioni-Halevy is a skilled writer.  The book has a formality of language that gives it an air of myth–which I thought worked well for the text.  Every page in the book sizzles with conflict and suspense, and it’s hard to put down.

Overall, I found this book a unique and fascinating look at the power and influence of women guiding men in history.  It is a testament to their independence and courage.  I look forward to reading more books by Ms. Etzioni-Halevy.

I’m a nut for prologues.  I love to read them, I love to write them.  They’re a teaser to me–like literary foreplay or a bit of cookie dough from the batch–a little taste of the goodies to come.  I enjoy when authors use them.  In a quick perusal of my bookshelf I found that most authors do NOT use them.  Some exceptions I found are Pillars of the Earth, Sepulchre, and The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane.

There does, however, seem to be some prologue prejudice in the industry.  I’ve often seen publishing professionals lament the use of prologues and encourage the writer to just get down to it.

So here are the prologue and opening of the novel I’m currently working on, set in Hemingway’s Key West.  I would like you to tell me if you like the prologue or not, and/or your general thoughts on prologues.  Please note that this is a first draft, and, well, that’s all I have to say about that.

Thanks, in advance, for your feedback.

After the Storm (working title)

By

Erika Robuck

Just South of Key West

July 3, 1961

24º N 82 º W

Mariella felt the tug on the line, then the lurch that jerked her forward.

“Shit!”

She threw her cigarette over the side of the Corrida, and backed into the chair that was anchored to the deck of the boat.   She pushed her dark hair, now run through with gray, out of her face and could see the line sliding back and forth on the railing in response to the fish.

Her first instinct was to call to Jake, but her pride clamped her mouth.

“Damn!”

It nearly pulled her out of the chair, but she dug her feet onto the decking and pushed back against it.  It would be a long fight, and she would have to call Jake soon, but she was determined that they would pull it in.

She watched her slender arms flexed to the pole.  They were deeply tanned and age spots had snuck out here and there, but not too many.  She saw drops of sweat forming along her forearms and looked at her watch.  It had only been eight minutes.

She smiled as she thought of The Old Man and the Sea, “No one could have fought that long, Papa.”

The minutes slouched by achingly slow, and finally, after thirty-two of them, disgusted with herself, Mariella yelled, “Jake!”

Her twenty-five year old son stumbled out of the cabin from his sleep, physically alert and mentally confused.

“How big?” He ran a hand through his hair.

“Just about took me over.”

“No shit.”

He checked her line on the railing and followed it with his hand.

“You ready?” she asked.

“We’ll see.”  He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“God, he’s like his father,” she thought

Jake grabbed the pole and sat down once his mother moved away.  They spent the next three hours bringing in a three-hundred twenty-six pound marlin.

* * * * *

The night was still, and dark, and briny.  Duval Street sang from a couple of blocks over, but the bugs outside the window were louder.  Jake was asleep on the downstairs couch.  He would be sore tomorrow.

Mariella struck a match and lit her cigarette—its light flaring out and leaving a sweet burning smell.  She leaned on the door frame, and watched the moths climb up the screen.  She flicked them off one by one to clear her view down Whitehead Street.  She still had a view of the lighthouse after all these years.

Mariella thought of their fight with the fish.  She and Jake had taken turns at the pole, while the other backed the boat down in response to the marlin’s movements.  It was a dance, and the fish fought well.  In the end, once they were able to tie the rope around the fish’s head, they backed up the boat—pulling the water from its gills to drown the fish. Then they moved like hell to get into the dock before the sharks destroyed it, and built their story all the way back to the pier of the fight, and the strength of the fish, and how Mariella was nearly pulled overboard,  and irony of drowning a fish.

After Mariella and Jake had brought in the marlin, they had their picture taken with it like they used to in the old days.  A small crowd had gathered to watch the tiny woman direct her son about slicing and packing the fish, which was no small task.

While they had worked, Nick pushed through the crowd.  “How much, bella?”

Mariella smiled at the wrinkled old man.  She gave him a hug.

“Quince, guapo.”

“You’re giving it to him,” said Jake.  “That took me hours.”

“Shut up, boy.” Nick smacked Jake on the back of the head.

Later, back at the house, Mariella fried up the fish and squeezed a lemon on it.  It was satisfying—the crispy fish, the pino grigio, the sunburn, the soreness in their hands and shoulders, a quiet night together before Jake had to get back to his wife, Carrie, who waited, eight months pregnant, on Ramrod Key. She had wanted to go out fishing with them, but Jake worried it would be too much for her.  He would stay over and go home the next day.

Mariella sent Jake off to the couch and cleaned up dinner, washing the dishes twice on each side, just as she used to for Papa and Pauline.  She put the dishes on the counter to dry as Bumbi and Mouse pawed in through the door.  Mariella tossed them some leftover fish, and the cats pulled it outside to eat in the shadows.

Mariella took a long drag from her cigarette and picked up the Key West Times that was rolled up outside her door, next to Jake’s discarded boat shoes.  She lined up her shoes next to her son’s and picked up the paper.

She walked up the stairs to her room listening to the comfortable, creaking sound of the wood in response to her feet.  She could smell the aroma of the fried fish at the top of the stairs and knew it would sit there for days reminding her of her day on the boat with her son.  When she got to her room she threw the paper on the bed and went to wash up in the bathroom.  When she walked back to her bed, something in the headline caught her eye. Moments later Jake was awakened by her screams, took the stairs two at a time, and pulled her from where she lay on the floor, but was unable to console her.

“Ernest Hemingway, 62, Death by Suicide

Ketchum, Idaho”

****

Key West

Thursday, January 24, 1935

Chapter One

The first time Mariella saw Ernest Hemingway at his house, he was sitting on a wicker stool on his lawn while his second wife, Pauline, cut his hair.  He was big and the chair was small, and he regarded Mariella with the kind of mocking smile that usually runs between old friends.  It occurred to Mariella that Pauline was trying to tame that great animal of a man, and the absurdity of it made Mariella smile back at him.

A flash went off and a lithe, lovely woman who resembled Pauline, advanced her camera and said, “You look like a lion about to pounce, Papa.”

“Don’t come too close, Jinny.  I bite.”

“Honestly,” said Pauline.  “Keep still for one more minute.”

Jinny walked around Mariella looking her up and down.  “Are you here for the posting, girl?”

“Yes, I’m Mariella Bennett.”

“Mariella Bennet?” said Papa.  “Your mother was a Cuban and your daddy was an Englishman.”

“Yes.  And a fisherman.”

“You’re hired!” Papa said.

“I haven’t even checked her references yet,” said Pauline.

“Good.  Do that and leave my hair alone.”  The big cat pounced out of his chair, hit Jinny on the backside, winked at Mariella, and ran to the yellow Ford parked on the street.  Then he was gone.

Pauline shook her head without a smile and motioned for Mariella to follow her inside.  Jinny walked behind Mariella, looking her over.

As Mariella passed into the sitting room, she was nearly run over by a boy about five years old, followed by his little brother, followed by a large, sweaty governess.

“Have a seat,” Pauline motioned to a formal settee in a pale blue sitting room.  A chandelier hung from the ceiling where Mariella thought a fan should be.  Jinny sat down close to Mariella. She smelled of cigarettes and rose water.

“Those are your references, I presume?” asked Pauline, taking the neat stack of papers from Mariella.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You may call me Mrs. Hemingway.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hemingway.”

“You are twenty-one.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hemingway.  My father recently passed away, and my mother’s had a hard time with it.  I need work to help support her and my two young sisters.”  Mariella was matter-of-fact and straightforward.

“I’m very sorry to hear about that.  And your father was a fisherman?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hemingway.”

Pauline had read about Mariella’s father in the paper.

“My friend Lorene said you used to work as her maid, and that you are trustworthy and efficient, but that you need a place closer to your home.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hemingway.  During my time at the Thompson’s, in addition to cleaning, I was also taught to serve at gatherings and tend bar,” said Mariella.  “I make a great highball.”

Pauline smiled.

“Mrs. Thompson told me I should say that,” said Mariella.

Pauline shuffled through the papers and put them on a nearby table where a half-eaten peach lay on a blue plate, browning in the heat.  A fly buzzed around it.  Next to the plate was a copy of War and Peace.

“Can you read?”

“Of course,” said Mariella.  “Would it please you if I read to you in addition to my other duties?”

“It would please me,” said Jinny.

“Jinny is my sister.  Her word is as good as mine at this house,” said Pauline.  ”Ada Stern is the boys’ governess.  Stay out of her way if you know what’s good for you.  And Ernest—Papa as he is called—always mind him when he is around, but my word is law.  The only real house rule is to never ever disturb Papa when he is writing.  He gets up very early, at five or six o’clock, and goes to the room over the garage to write.  He works until it gets too hot, about 10 or so, and then he goes fishing.  You have read Papa’s work?”

“I’m familiar with it, yes.”

Pauline sat in anticipation of the usual outpouring of sentiments regarding Ernest’s talent, but Mariella said nothing.  Pauline looked defeated.  Mariella thought that Pauline must live vicariously through Hemingway, and that she took compliments to him as praise for herself.

What Pauline would never know, thought Mariella, was the depth of her feeling for Hemingway’s work.  She had read The Sun Also Rises three years ago, after finding a copy of it on her mother’s bedside table.  She had to read it in small bites while her mother was out.  She knew her mother would not approve of her reading it.  But Mariella knew five pages into the novel, that Ernest Hemingway had written it for her—was speaking to her soul—and it greatly affected her.

It was then that her obsession with Hemingway began.  She got a copy of his short stories In Our Time from the library and hid it under her pillow. She muddled through Torrents of Spring, not really understanding it, but experienced her initial ecstasy over Hemingway when she read A Farewell to Arms.

Over the years, Mariella had kept up with Hemingway’s comings and goings through the society section of the Key West Times.  It was through these pages that she learned of the Thompsons’ friendship with the Hemingway’s.

And now she sat in the Hemingway’s sitting room.

“And does it please you?” asked Jinny.

Mariella looked Jinny in the eye.  “Yes, very much.”

Only the ticking of the clock and the sound of muffled children’s voices outside could be heard.  Pauline reached over to Jinny’s dress and ruffled through a pocket in its side until she found a cigarette.  Mariella reached in her own dress and pulled out a book of matches.  She lit Pauline’s cigarette.

Pauline let the smoke drift over her face like a veil and said through it, “You’ll start Monday.  Be here at six.”

She stood, picked up her book, and left the room.  Jinny stood and followed her sister.  When the women left, Mariella slipped the half-eaten peach into her pocket and stepped out onto the back lawn.  She walked away, but could feel eyes on her.  She turned and looked up to see Pauline and Jinny on the upper balcony watching her.

“See you Monday,” called Jinny.  Pauline smoked and waved.

“Bye,” called Mariella.

When she was out of sight Pauline said, “So, what do you think?”

Jinny watched Mariella walk through the front gate and disappear around the turn. “She’s a peach.”

I’m working hard at this NaNoWriMo-thing, but I’m finding more and more each day that I cannot simply purge my brain of material without regard to correctness.  I want my writing to be all about quantity this month, but it’s impossible for me to focus if I’m unsure about the correctness of an historical detail in my book.  Even if I choose to alter history (I do write fiction, after all) I must know the truth before I make my decision whether or not to use it.

For example, the other day I realized that the gun Hemingway used to kill sharks in March of 1935 was different than what I’d originally thought.  This was important because of how the gun fired, and because of a later scene where he acquires the new gun. It took me an hour to research the matter, watch Youtube videos of people shooting the gun, and consult with a retired cop friend of mine who is a gun expert.  The part doesn’t have enormous significance in the book, but I became obsessed with getting the details right, and to the detriment of my daily word count.

Yesterday’s tangent was in regards to Hemingway’s trip to Bimini in the Bahamas during the summer of 1935.  I have five different books with accounts of the time spent on Bimini, and there are discrepancies in the accounts.  There were also many people who visited the Hemingway’s, and I wanted to get them all straight in my head.  Then I spent an hour looking at pictures of the island, watching travel segments about it, and reading history and local news.  Since I can’t physically travel to Bimini at this time, I needed a clear picture of the setting before I could write the parts of the book set there.  Thank God for the Internet.

Then I got sidetracked researching a minor character and true historical figure in the book.  I wanted to see if there were any legal issues associated with using her name.  I couldn’t find any, but I did find that her granddaughter is an editor at a major publishing house, and I wouldn’t want to piss her off by portraying her grandmother in an unfavorable light.  So now, I’m debating whether to scrap her part altogether.

What all this boils down to is that I’m learning that for every step forward in historical fiction writing, there are two steps back.  Sometimes the planets align and all the historical events line up as the writer needs them to, but more often, it’s about fitting a story into the messy, nonlinear,  chaos of history.  The notion of a timeline is almost laughable when you think of all of the twists and turns, diversions and cycles of time.  Rather than a line, it should look like a tree with a complicated root and branch system that meet somewhere in the middle.

I will push on with NaNo, and I’m enjoying the habits I’m forming regarding my writing schedule.  I’m gaining insight into my process that will serve me in the future, and learning when I can go on a tangent for an hour, and when I can slam the books shut and write.

Tonight, I write.

I’m a visual person.

I see scenes as film before I write them.   I hear the soundtrack, see the setting, and can visualize the lighting.  I started my last novel as a screenplay, but I found the format too tedious.  That doesn’t change the fact that my writing comes from my imagination, which works like film.

One of the ways I’m able to better visualize the characters in my books is to cast them.  I get inspiration for my stories by choosing actors, printing out headshots to go with my character bio’s, and watching clips of the actors on Youtube or in movies.  The actor becomes the Muse, and the writing flows from it. Sometimes the actors change, or I can clearly see more than one actor in a part, but I can’t tell you how helpful this process is to me as a writer.   (It’s also a lot of fun.)

Below, I’ve posted links to some of the “cast” of the book I’m working on now.  Take a look, and let me know what you think. Do you cast your books?  If so, who are your characters?

Ernest Hemingway

Pauline Hemingway

Protagonist: Hemingway Housekeeper

Love Interest/WW1 Vet

Friend/ WW1 Vet

This morning, I was able to get to my favorite bookstore/coffee shop in downtown Annapolis (courtesy of my darling husband) where the Muse always seems to wait for me.  It was a crisp fall day on the bay, and after a walk around the dock,  I got to work and wrote 587 words.  I also managed to narrowly avoid a parking ticket, so I counted the morning a success.

I got home around lunch time to eat with the kids, and then work some more while they napped.  I have to confess that it’s already a sorry state of affairs in the household.  It took every ounce of self-control I had not to tidy the clutter, but I managed to plant myself in my desk chair and produce another 600 words.

Here are some examples of the deterioration of the house and general state of anarchy resulting from just four days of Mommy on NaNoWriMo:

I found oldest playing hockey, outside, in the dark.

I found this guy walking around the family room eating a messy chocolate doughnut.

But in spite of the unopened mail strewn about the kitchen, the disaster area of my desk, the unfolded laundry on unmade beds, and the frightening levels of freedom my children have found, there is something good to show for all of this.

My four day word count.

Happy NaNoWriMo!