Author: Tracee de Hahn

I took a well-deserved break the other evening and went to a movie. I picked Jack Reacher, Never Go Back as my two hours of entertainment. The problem, and one I should have anticipated, was that once I’d seen the movie I needed to read the book. How did it compare, what changes were made (other than the obvious ones…. how tall is Reacher?). Fortunately (deep irony here), when I went to my book shelf there it was – Lee Child’s Never Go Back in hardcover splendor. I have a lot of books that I’ve bought and not had a chance to read, so there is no shame in an unbroken spine. I thought I’d take a peek at the first chapter or so and get a sense of the difference between movie and manuscript, then get back to work on my own manuscript. It takes me around a minute to read one page of a novel. That’s over four hours to read Never Go Back. In one big chunk of time. I’ll skip the obvious, clearly I enjoyed it. What struck me is how much of Reacher is internal. Jack Reacher the quintessential action hero is actually the quintessential cerebral action hero. How does that translate on screen? How do you show Reacher weighing all of his options and trying to get the bad guy to back down unharmed? Reacher is a loner and loners aren’t the most loquacious people. How do you translate that into film without it becoming a silent picture? Anytime I read I feel like I’m taking a personal master class in writing. With Lee Child it is a master class in picking the exact level of detail to incorporate. In an interview he once said that he skips research. He wants to write what will feel familiar to the reader. If the reader expects the gun to be heavy why interrupt their immersion in the story to explain that ‘technically the xyz revolver is lighter than most in the same category.’ Who cares! At that point in the story, with the gun pointed, all the reader should care about it What Happens Next. Child knows this. Maybe a little of his talent and skill will rub off on me as I re-read my own draft, trying to gauge the details needed for my reader to feel the place. Really feel it. I undergo serial reading more often that I’d like to admit. (A real confession here…. a bit embarrassing… I was on a long flight last week and read three Jack Reacher novels in a row. Yep. In a row. It was like eating a whole bag of candy at Halloween. I blame this on e-books which allow instant gratification. I also blame this on the airline. There was not one single good movie to watch.) Back to the point. Reading a clump of books by one author is instructive. If they have a continuing character you see very clearly how they capture that introduction each time. How much description and backstory is enough? How much does it vary? You judge what the author keeps as part of their style and what is unique to the story being told in that particular book. How do these authors keep us coming back? We want familiarity, but not imitation. In Lee Child’s Never Go Back the story was comfortingly expected, yet fresh. Of course, in the end, I have to remember that I read that last Reacher novel when I should have been writing. Maybe Lee Child will offer a few hours of his time to make up for my writing jag? Writing for me, of course. Or maybe I should count the debt paid, since I certainly learned enough from my read to justify those few hours immersed in someone else’s world. Thank you, Mr. Child. 

 Most writers claim some modicum of creativity. Any writer of fiction does, after all, we are creating people, places (or at least the specific description of a real place), dialogue, sometimes even entire worlds.  But I believe extra credit should be given to those among us who create not only books, but words, and indeed, entire genres. Horace Walpole was such a man. What do I envy most about him? The creation of the word serendipity. Today it is defined as ‘luck that takes the form of finding valuable or pleasant things that are not looked for.’ He first used the word in a letter, calling the word ‘very expressive’. It was not a word created out of thin air: Serendip was the old name for Sri Lanka. However, it was not the exotic geography that led to his word serendipity. There was a very early detective story titled ‘The Three Princes of Serendip’ that told the story of three princes who track down a missing camel through luck and good fortune. Walpole was inspired by their tale and, voilà, serendipity was born. If that weren’t enough, Walpole created the Gothic genre with the novel The Castle of Otranto. Technically he probably deserves some credit for modern marketing since he pretended the novel was a sixteenth century manuscript discovered among the possessions of an ‘ancient Catholic family.’ It was published to great acclaim and popularity and it was only with subsequent printings that Walpole added a note to the effect that it was an original, modern work of fiction. Since I began my professional career as an architect I also have to admire the fact that Walpole created an architectural style. His London residence, Strawberry Hill House, pre-figured the nineteenth-century Gothic revival, lending its name to ‘Strawberry Hill Gothic’ architecture. Gloom was the watchword. I can’t help but wonder if he was the eighteenth century equivalent of JK Rowling. She elevated the stature of young adult books in the marketplace, creating a series that led to blockbuster movies and a theme park. Walpole created a genre and an architectural style. Not bad for a pair of storytellers. Dare I say aspirational? 

 I agree with PD James that all she needed was a pad of paper and a chair in order to write. That said, I like variety. I’m a peripatetic writer. I move from the front porch (it’s an old Victorian house so the porch is 38 feet long, a marvel that should be enjoyed and appreciated!) to the studio (where I have a big monitor, all the better to read the manuscript in fine detail) to various chairs around the house (where I constantly whine that what I really need is a footstool). Stephen King has said that a writer should face a wall in order to focus. The length of my front lawn is a type of wall. It’s walnut and maple trees and grass, peaceful and not distracting. I don’t think much about what’s around me when I’m writing. Music helps me focus and I am well trained to keep my eyes on the screen. Steve Berry once placed a sign on his writing studio that read something along the lines of “Writer at work, please do not disturb.” He eventually realized that he wasn’t keeping his family out as much as he was trying to keep himself in. That’s the hard part. Where do you work so you won’t think that mowing the lawn or doing laundry is a better alternative? That’s the blank wall. The place where you don’t pick a usually avoided chore as a way to avoid the real problem: a blank page. To stay focused I’ve created a distraction that makes me get back to work. If I’m drifting and thinking that for once in my life I should do the dishes, I first visit the large piece of butcher paper taped in my upstairs corridor. It is lined with marks indicating ten page increments and I update where my story is. The story shifts down as detail is added and I reflect on the arc of the action. If I’m really thinking about doing the dishes I compare it to earlier story boards with other books outlined on them. Somewhere on this paper I find an entry to the story – maybe it’s not the next scene or chapter. Perhaps it is earlier and a detail that I recognize should be added. Maybe I jump beyond and write a scene I know will have to be written. The outline on paper reminds me of how much is left to be down and that I have done it before. Anyone done once can be done again. Right? Then it’s back to one of my places… it really doesn’t matter which one because in the end the only space I need is the one in my mind.  

 Not the grammar and vocabulary. Not those tools. The other ones. Are you a typewriter person (still) or a pen and paper person? Most of us are keyboarding. I am on a keyboard for a few reasons, including the obvious ones: ease of correction and the need to have a digital manuscript at some point. However, I have a collection of typewriters ranging from Underwood to IBM and a serious obstacle to using many of them is how hard it is to punch those keys. The newer electric ones are even a bit of a pound compared to the lightest of touches required on my Mac. I want to see the hands of the newspapermen and women who pounded out story after story on these marvels of iron. The oldest in my collection is the Underwood and the keyboard is at such a steep angle and the keys are so stiff it is no wonder the hunt and peck method was used. It takes all the force of my hand directed at one finger to make that key strike hard enough. Bruised fingertips anyone? The ink pen hits a similar roadblock. The first thing to consider is the type of pen. As much as I hate to admit it, the modern roller ball is a marvel of invention. It is light weight and the ink flows. If you take this for granted – after all, why shouldn’t ink simply flow – then you haven’t had the pleasure of using a fine fountain pen much less an old quill. I love my Mont Blanc, it is a thing of beauty and elegance but it’s not exactly light weight and… well, the ink. Once you open that cap you had better write and keep writing otherwise the nib goes dry. On the other end you need to allow enough time for the ink to dry on the page. Generations of fountain pen writers must have had a cadence to their work that reflected this. Slow and steady to keep the ink flowing and at the same allow time for the ink to dry. I’ve come to the conclusion that this is one reason penmanship was so elegant. You needed to allow time and that allowed for the perfect construction of letters. My handwriting is a mere scribble – it looks like I took the medical school class where doctors learn to write unintelligibly – and can be useless even to me. What was that word? That note? It needs to come with a translation dictionary. I also have a collection of inkwells. They run the gambit from heavy bronze to cut glass and silver to a hollowed out seashell. Their forms are endlessly creative. They are formal and playful. They are crafted in the shape of wild animals and solemn squares. I won’t bother to detail the problems with a quill pen (I use the word pen loosely here). Scratch scratch sums it up. Think inks blots. Dry ink. Spilled ink. It’s enough to make you dash off a quick email to the folks who created the modern keyboard and the delete button and undo and save and save as and so many other conveniences that we take for granted. While I celebrate – and use – the most modern of writing tools I realize that they aren’t necessary. That’s part of the beauty of writing. Scratch words in the dirt, use the end of a borrowed broken pencil on a paper napkin. The meaning of the words is what matters. That is the constant that connects all writers from the first moment someone wrote the story of Ulysses’ journey until today and this very moment. So pick a writing tool and just get on with it. 

There’s a bit of debate among writers: which is better, the sound of silence or a perfect play list? I vote playlist. Perhaps because silence is too distracting. After all, there is always some noise and while writing I don’t want to think about anything other than what is going on in my mind. This is not a time to admire the twittering of birds, or the thump of a hammer as the house renovation continues across the street. It is certainly not a time to wonder how the walnuts got to be so big this year. (Even the thought of this is distracting. There must be an answer. These nuts are – and I am serous – louder than any other walnuts, ever. It is possible that the clever squirrels have filled them with lead. We live in a late Victorian house and the sound of the crash of the nuts on the metal roofs of the porches is enough to make you think an army is walking around up there.) You get the point. I want to control the environment. Because of this I have several playlists, each for a different situation. The Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos are my ‘silence’ track. The songs flow seamlessly one to the next, the voices are instruments, subtle and harmonious. Why play them at all if they are ‘silence’ or background? They set a pace…. Steady, measured, and consistent. They are my concentrate and write partners. They mask the background of my neighborhood and help me focus. A notch up from this is any Indian music I can stream. (Thank you YouTube.) It likely helps that I don’t understand Hindi, so the words are music without the distraction of a story line. The rhythm varies between brisk, romantic and adventurous.  It is evocative without being overpowering. And it is enough to keep my mind off the walnuts. Sometimes I need a little more pep – they say Stephen King writes to mind blowing loud rock music (he lives in Maine… is it possible that he needs to drown out even louder falling walnuts?). For my level of pep I have a playlist of – even to me –  random songs. The range includes Carrie Underwood, U2, The Eagles, Adele, One Republic, and Coldplay among many others. It bounces all over the place and quite frankly some of the songs are loud and in-your-face. How does this help keep me in my mental zone? No shuffling, that’s the rule. It is amazing how the mind filters when it knows what to expect. I can listen to this list and when it stops after an hour and fifty five minutes it’s time for a break. Have I ‘heard’ any of the songs? Not really. It is possible that I don’t even like some of them, but they keep me motivated in some inexplicable way. They pass in one ear and out the other, literally. Hit shuffle and my subconscious knows something is off. With each new song there is a tiny pause to acknowledge it. Not good. I’m curious to know what others do. Silence? Music? I’ve just checked and I’ve played my ‘pep’ list 183 times. There must be something about it that I like. I just paused for a listen and the Charlie Daniels Band was playing the Devil Goes Down to Georgia. It was a surprise, even to me.

 I would like to wax poetic about the joys of the word and of the earth, but in fact what I’ve realized after today’s early morning gardening exploits is that gardening and writing are both work. There is a short term sense of satisfaction: the plants are in the ground, the words are on the page, but that satisfaction only lasts a few weary minutes. What we really want to see are the end results – the plants in full bloom and ground cover spreading – just as we want to see the completed page mesh with all the others, the final product polished and perfect. Perfect? I think that’s also a fallacy. Should the plants have been closer, arranged differently, different plants entirely? Maybe I shouldn’t have planted them there at all (the soil was very rocky). In writing we have the same concerns: is this the right story, the right point of view, are my chapters hitting the high points, is that the right word? And never, ever perfection.  Fortunately, time helps. The plants grow (usually) and the book is finished. We have distance and perspective and are left with that very special sense of accomplishment that makes all the agony worthwhile.