Writing Lessons from A CHRISTMAS CAROL: Creating an Imperfect Ending

 

This is the last installment in my series on “Writing Lessons from A Christmas Carol.” I made one small change to the 12/28/2015 post to make it current.

Writing Lessons from A Christmas Carol: Creating an Imperfect Ending

I hate saccharine endings. I also hate ones that seem unrealistic or tie up the loose ends too perfectly. Yes, miracles do happen, and it can be okay to use one if it is set up correctly. But life isn’t perfect, and no story should end by pretending it is. Even a good love story ends with the lovers accepting each other’s faults rather than making them go away.

A Christmas Carol shows me how to satisfy with an imperfect ending.

In one sense, the story does end with a miracle, because that is what the change in Scrooge is. And we are all happy that the shadows of the future could be changed and Tiny Tim did not die. But he was still lame. God does not choose to cure every illness or disability in this life, and having Him do so here would have been saccharine instead of satisfying.

The Christmas season doesn’t end on December 25^th, and the close of Dickens’ story is my wish for you in 2022 and beyond:

[I]t was always said of [Scrooge], that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

Writing Lessons from A CHRISTMAS CAROL: A Subtle Message

 

The third installment in this series was originally posted on 12/21/2015.

Writing Lessons from A Christmas Carol: A Subtle Message

A Christmas Carol teaches me how to weave a subtle message into a story.

Wait, you say. A subtle message? The message in A Christmas Carol is anything but subtle.

That depends on which message you mean. The values of generosity and kindness and the possibility of redemption are all front and center, but that is only part of the point Dickens makes.

There was nothing politically incorrect about the Christ message in Dicken’s day, but that didn’t mean everyone wanted to read books about it. So he wrote a story that took place at Christmas and extolled Christian values but had a seemingly secular focus. On the surface, anyway. The Christ message was still there, but it was woven into the story in subtle ways. I have highlighted the most important words in these examples:

·       Near the beginning, Scrooge tells his nephew that Christmas has never done him any good. Here is part of the nephew’s response: “But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round—apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that—as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time.”

·       This passage comes during Scrooge’s discussion with Marley’s ghost: “At this time of the rolling year,” the spectre said, “I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode?”

·       After Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim return from church, Tiny Tim leaves the room momentarily. While he is gone, Mrs. Cratchit asks how he behaved in church. Bob says he was as good as gold and remarks on how Tiny Tim says the strangest things. “He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”

Dickens couldn’t foresee the future and didn’t know how easily those passages could be deleted from movie adaptations of his story. But people who read the original version still find them there.

When people are tired of hearing a message or simply don’t believe it, subtle is better. And A Christmas Carol shows me how to accomplish that.

__________

The picture at the top of this post shows Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim returning from church. It was drawn by Fred Barnard for an 1878 edition of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. The illustration is in the public domain because of its age. 

Writing Lessons from A CHRISTMAS CAROL: Show Me, Too

 

This week’s reprint is from 12/14/2015.

Writing Lessons from A Christmas Carol: Show Me, Too

Charles Dicken’s wrote A Christmas Carol during the earlier part of his career and, like any serious writer, he got better after that. Although it isn’t his best work, it’s a great story because it seduces me each time I read it. This desire to read a book over and over is the very definition of a classic.

What keeps drawing me in? Partly, it’s the style the narrator uses to tell the story—as we discussed in the last post. But another big plus is Dicken’s ability to show me what happens rather than just telling me.

At first, it doesn’t carry that promise. How do we discover that Scrooge is a miser? Dickens tells us.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and on his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about him; he iced his office in the dog-days, and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas.

It’s fun to read this passage, with its rhythm and picture language, but I’m not ready to take the narrator’s word for Scrooge’s character. Dickens must have understood that, because he went on to prove his reliability by showing me how Scrooge acts.

First, he shows Scrooge’s clerk, Bob Cratchit, trying to keep warm by the embers of one dying coal because Bob is afraid of being fired if he asks for another. Dicken’s shows Scrooge’s attitude toward charity when two men come seeking subscriptions for the poor and Scrooge says he does enough by supporting prisons and workhouses with his taxes. Dickens also shows Scrooge’s attitude toward Christmas in other ways: in a conversation with his nephew and his reaction to a caroler. After all that, we are finally convinced that Scrooge is a miser, and we either pity him or are angry with him for being so cold-hearted.

Dickens produces a different type of emotion when the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come takes Scrooge to Bob Cratchit’s house just after Tiny Tim has died. He shows us the effect on Bob, who is walking a little slower but tries to stay positive for his family, and on his family, who are trying to cheer up their father while dealing with their own sorrow. I know the ending, and I still get tears in my eyes because Dickens does such a good job of showing the family’s grief. He does it without using clichéd actions such as wailing. His evidences of grief are more subtle: a mother setting down her sewing because she can’t see the stiches, two young children laying their cheeks against their father’s own, and a father kissing his dead child’s face.

That’s lesson two from A Christmas Carol. Usually, the lesson is described as “show, don’t tell.” Here, Dickens does both, and it works because he put a lot of thought into his telling passage. But the tell would not have been convincing without the show. So the lesson here is not quite “show, don’t tell.” I’d phrase it this way. “Tell if you have a purpose in doing so. But if you want to make your point, show me, too.”

__________

The picture at the top of this post shows Scrooge refusing to give a subscription to the two gentlemen who called at his office. The illustration was created by Sol Eytinge for 1867 and 1868 editions of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. The image is in the public domain because of its age. 

Writing Lessons from A CHRISTMAS CAROL: A Good Beginning

 

This month I am reprinting a series that I originally posted in December 2015. This first one is from 12/7/2015.

Writing Lessons from A Christmas Carol: A Good Beginning

One way I grow as a writer is by analyzing the books I read. This month my blog will cover lessons from A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. I’ll start with the importance of a good beginning.

To define my terms, a good beginning is one that grabs the reader’s attention and motivates him or her to continue reading. It doesn’t have to be—and usually isn’t—the event that creates the central conflict, but it does have to fit with the story. For me, finding the right beginning is the hardest part of writing a novel.

So what makes a good beginning? Let’s start with the first paragraph of A Christmas Carol.

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Is this a good beginning? Or, to ask the question another way, does it make you want to read on?

For me it does. It tells me repeatedly that Marley is dead, but it doesn’t tell me why that matters. So the first paragraph leaves me with a question that won’t get answered unless I continue reading.

The next paragraph doesn’t do it, but it keeps my attention because the detour is interesting and has its own purpose. Here’s the second paragraph.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefor permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

This paragraph sets the tone (informal and conversational) and introduces me to the omniscient narrator. That last point is important because now I won’t be thrown out of the story when the narrator adds something that the characters themselves can’t know.

But I still don’t know why it matters that Marley is dead. Will the next paragraphs answer my question?

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnized it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet’s Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot—say Saint Paul’s Churchyard for instance—literally to astonish his son’s weak mind.

Now I’m even more curious. What remarkable thing is going to happen because Marley is dead? If I wasn’t hooked after the first paragraph, I am by the fourth. And that allows Dickens to take six more pages to fill in Scrooge’s character before answering the question that peaked my interest in the first place. Six pages where I keep reading even though I don’t yet know how those events relate to Marley’s death.

So how do you get a reader to keep reading? Grab the reader’s attention in the first few paragraphs and clue the reader in to the style and narrator of the book. If everything comes together, you may have a new fan.

That’s the first lesson from A Christmas Carol.

__________

* The generic word “good” is often used as a lazy writer’s alternative to finding terminology that is more descriptive. For this post, however, I chose the word purposefully to conjure up the title of Lemony Snicket’s first book from A Series of Unfortunate Events. If you compare the opening paragraphs of The Bad Beginning with the opening paragraphs of A Christmas Carol, you will find some interesting similarities. But I’ll let you make that comparison on your own.

__________

The picture at the top of this post shows Marley’s Ghost confronting Ebenezer Scrooge. It was drawn by John Leech for the first printing of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, which was published in December 1843. The illustration is in the public domain because of its age. 

A Thanksgiving Acrostic

 

It’s a little late to be wishing you a Happy Thanksgiving, but I’m doing it anyway. The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas are a busy time for most of us, and that includes me, so I’m going to use reprints this year. I’ll start with a Thanksgiving acrostic originally posted on November 23, 2015.

A Thanksgiving Acrostic

Here is a list of things that I am thankful for as a writer.

Thesauruses for finding the perfect word,

Handkerchiefs to cry into when my characters get in trouble,

Authentic dialogue,

Notebooks to preserve ideas,

Kind friends and relatives who don’t laugh at my lousy first drafts,

Snoopy’s Guide to the Writing Life for those moments when I need encouragement mixed with humor,

Gripping plots,

Imaginary friends (and enemies) who come to life on the page,

Vivid description,

Imagery that puts the reader in the setting,

Nerve to cut out those favorite passages that just don’t fit, and

Groups of other writers to provide critiques, support, and networking.

__________

The picture at the head of this post wasn’t in the original 2015 post. It is a Currier and Ives print titled “Home to Thanksgiving” and is in the public domain because of its age. (Currier and Ives went out of business in 1907.)

Writing Lessons from Africa--Clarity is Everything

 

Sightseeing is no fun if you can’t see anything because of the darkness or the dust in your eyes.

A significant part of our time in South Africa was spent on safari riding in an open-air Land Rover (the first photo) while bouncing along dirt tracks (the second photo).  That was fine during the morning game drives but became a problem for me during the evening ones.

I almost always wear sunglasses while outside. They aren’t just for the sun, though. I wear contacts, and the sunglasses keep the dust out of my eyes. As anyone who wears contacts knows, getting grit under a lens is not only uncomfortable but can also result in losing the contact.

When the sun went down during the evening game drives, I couldn’t see the animals (or much of anything else) through my dark lenses. Eventually I learned my lesson and took out my contacts when it got too dark, but it took at least one evening game drive before I realized I needed to take my prescription glasses along.

So when I got home, I ordered a pair of Transitions sunglasses. Hopefully I’ll have better luck seeing the next time it’s both dark and windy out.

My sunglass issues remind me of those authors who use double meanings or try to bury literary, historical, or other lesser-known references in their work. (Yes, I know the analogy is a stretch.) But unless you are aiming for a highly-educated audience, allusions that some readers will miss can work if—and only if—the surface story is interesting without them. If my enjoyment depends on specialized knowledge or Mensa-level thinking, I won’t read that author again.

If you want to infuse your manuscripts with allusions that show how smart you are, make sure the story works on an everyday level as well.

Because reading is no fun if you can’t see the road ahead.

Writing Lessons from Africa--Explain Yourself

 

We were in Zimbabwe, Africa, in early September, which is around the time when the dry season ends and the rainy season begins. What we experienced was more like the dry season as there was no rain while we were there.

Apparently that was also the best time to see Victoria Falls. According to our guide, the falls are sparsest in the middle of the rainy season. And they are so full of water in the middle of the dry season that you can’t see them for the heavy mist.

That seems counterintuitive until it’s explained. The Zambezi River is fed by a natural catchment area that absorbs rainfall like a sponge during the rainy season and then releases it gradually. By the time the water reaches Victoria Falls, 1000 kilometers downriver, the dry season has begun.

The fact that Victoria Falls is fullest during the dry season is hard to believe until it’s explained. If I just made a bald statement that more water goes over the falls in the dry season than in the rainy season, would you be inclined to believe me? If you know me, probably so. But what if you don’t?

As writers, we must be careful how we deal with mysterious events or those that appear to be unlikely. That doesn’t mean we should eliminate them or give away our secrets too soon, but it does mean we need to include enough logic and foreshadowing during the course of the story for the reader to say “of course” or “that makes sense” once the solution is revealed. Otherwise, we’ll lose our audience.

So make sure you put enough information in the story to make it ring true at the end.

Writing Lessons from Africa--Tastes Differ

I think wart hogs are among the ugliest animals God made. Well, hippos on land are uglier, and I’m sure you can name a few other animals, but wart hogs are near the top of my list. One of the women I went on safari with had a different take, though. Debbie thinks wart hogs are beautiful, and she was excited every time we saw some. It just goes to show that people have different tastes.

Readers have different tastes, too. It’s easy for me to get discouraged when someone doesn’t like what I have written. If it’s a true critique where they point out things I could have done differently, I appreciate the feedback. But sometimes it’s just because they don’t like the type of things I write.

And that’s okay.

I’ve heard some writers claim that they are writing for the masses. Unfortunately, that’s an unobtainable objective. No one can please everyone, and I’d go crazy if I tried. Or I’d get so depressed that I’d give up writing altogether.

Some audiences are narrower than others, but none include everyone. Even generalized categories such as children, teens, adult women, and adult men are far too broad.

A sane writer (if there is such a thing) narrows his or her audience and writes for it. If other people enjoy the story, too, that’s simply a bonus.

So find your audience, and don’t be discouraged when you come across a reader who isn’t part of it.

 

Writing Lessons from Africa--The Hidden Depths

 

Personally, I think hippos are boring when you see them out of the water. Notice how ugly even the baby is when standing around grazing, or at least that’s my assessment.

In the water, hippos can be magic. That’s the second photo, which shows only eyes, ears, and noses peeking out.

We only saw the two hippos out of the water. I took the photo at about 9:30 a.m. from an open jeep in Pilanesberg National Park where the wildlife is used to tourists. But in the late afternoon, when hippos take to the water, we had a number of sightings. Those were at Songimvelo Game Reserve and along the Zambezi River. And the submerged hippos were by far the more interesting.

I gather lots of research when writing fiction. While that’s especially important for historical fiction, good research is necessary for all genres. Then there are those writers who create detailed character sketches for their main characters. In the process, we learn a lot of information that is helpful in developing the story but is of little interest to our readers. But because we know it, we are tempted to use it.

Bad idea.

Dumping everything we know into a story is as boring as a hippo out of water. Leaving most of that information beneath the depths, however, intrigues readers and keeps them involved.

So leave most of your research in the hidden depths.

Writing Lessons from Africa--Do You Really Need that Horn?

 

The word “rhinoceros” makes me think of a large animal with a horn in the center of its forehead, but that isn’t what we saw in Africa. The photo shows white rhinos at the Pilanesberg National Park and, although the bump is there, the horn is missing.

That’s the one exception to the Park’s mandate not to interfere with the natural order of things. The rangers remove the horns to protect the rhinos from their only natural predator—man.

Although it’s normal to think that a rhino’s horn is necessary to protect it from other wildlife, that apparently isn’t the case. And, if removed correctly, the absence of a horn doesn’t hurt the rhino. Unfortunately, poachers don’t care if they kill a rhino in the process of harvesting its horn. But if they know they won’t find horns on the rhinos in the Park, they won’t bother them. So it is actually the absence of a horn that protects the rhinos most.

As writers, we often have favorite phrases or passages that we believe are integral to the story. We might think a sentence or paragraph or chapter is our best art or that the story won’t work without it. But that might be akin to putting a rhino at risk by leaving it with its horn. Sometimes the section we can’t let go of is actually dragging down the story rather than helping it. Those favorite parts may need to be judged more harshly than the ones we don’t love as much because sometimes what looks like a help is actually a hinderance.

So cut off the horn if it hurts your story.

Writing Lessons from Africa--The Importance of Little Things

 

One of the coolest things I saw in Africa was small. Similarly, it’s often the little things that make a story work.

Less than six inches long, the Southern Masked Weaver is one of the most fascinating birds I’ve come across. First, there are the nests. Instead of building their homes on top of branches, masked weavers make them to hang down. A male weaves a grass nest and offers it to one of its many mates (or potential mates), who either accepts or rejects it. I don’t know whether rejecting a nest is the same as rejecting a suitor or whether the male keeps trying until the female is satisfied. Either way, it’s an interesting custom.

The birds themselves are also interesting. Females aren’t very colorful, but the males are. You can tell that the bird in the second photo is a male by his bright yellow body and—if you look closely enough—the black mask over his eyes. I don’t know if he is finishing up the nest or passing food to his mate inside, but the image is intriguing.

I took the first photo at approximately 8:00 a.m. in a South Africa parking lot. We were relatively close, so it’s unfortunate that there were no masked weavers in sight. I took the second photo around 5:30 p.m. along the banks of the Zambezi River while we were visiting Zimbabwe, and there were quite a few birds flying around or perched upside-down on their nests. These nests were in reeds quite a distance away, and I’m still surprised and pleased that my 300 mm lens picked up this kind of detail. Although none of my research addressed it, I’m guessing that the time of day rather than the location was the reason the birds were active during the second photo but not the first.

Small as they are, the masked weavers were one of the things that made my trip to Africa special. Similarly, it is often the little things that add spice to a story to make it unique or captivating. So when you write, play attention to the “little” incidents, scenes, and plot points and make them count.

Because the little things are important, too.

Writing Lessons from Africa--Every Writer is Different

 

Antelope roam everywhere in southern Africa. They even share hotel grounds with people (as do zebras). Here is a guide to identifying just a few of the many species of antelope.

The picture at the head of this post shows a waterbuck, and the one below is a kudu. If you are looking at males, the easiest way to tell them apart is by their horns, and the difference there is obvious.¹ But all of them—male and female—can be identified by their markings.

Waterbucks and kudus are similar in size, but kudus have noticeable white lines running from their sides over their backs, while waterbucks have a distinctive white circle around their rear.

Then there are the impala and the springbok. Smaller and sleeker than many antelope, they are both darker on top with a lighter belly. But impala make the color change in progression from dark to light (top to bottom), while springboks have a darker mark in between. That’s how you can tell the third photo shows impalas and the fourth is a springbok. There are also significant differences in the markings on the face, but at a distance they are easier to distinguish by looking at their sides.

Then there are the blue wildebeest, which have an entirely different look. They are often described as looking like cattle in the front and horses in the back. That’s the next photo.

In Africa, you can’t just say, “I see an antelope,” because someone is sure to ask what kind. There are all different kinds of writers, too. Some (called plotters) plan every scene out in advance, while others (called pantsers) discover the story as they write it. Some are sticklers for grammar rules, and others feel free to break them if they think the story calls for it. Some use big words and long sentences, while others keep both short. There is no right or wrong way as long as it works for the writer.

Actually, that’s still too much of a generalization. Even among types of writers, every one is different. I’m sure that’s true of antelope, too, but here I’ll make the comparison to zebras, instead. We were told that a zebra’s stripes are like our fingerprints, and no two patterns are alike. Writers are like that, too. And that’s good.

So whatever type of writer you are, embrace it.

__________

¹ The main difference between deer and antelope is that deer lose and regrow their antlers every year while an antelope’s antlers are permanent.

Writing Lessons from Africa--Chasing Elephants

 

Roland and I recently returned from a trip to Africa. Most of our time was spent on safari in the Republic of South Africa, where we saw dozens or perhaps hundreds of zebras, giraffes, and antelope. We also saw hippos, crocodiles, lions, leopards, cheetahs, wart hogs, and rhinos. But something was missing from the list.

Elephants.

Everyone told us we were sure to see elephants on safari. Our tour guide even “guaranteed” it. But everyone was wrong. On our morning and evening game drives at Songimvello Game Reserve, we saw evidence of elephants (primarily their droppings) but no elephants even though our safari guide tried to chase them down by taking us everywhere there had been a sighting in the last few days. Unfortunately, the elephants were no longer there.

We also spent a day driving through Pilanesberg National Park. Our tour guide had “guaranteed” we would see elephants and he passed asked our Pilanesberg driver to find some. But again, although we saw evidence of elephants (their dust in the distance), they were gone before we arrived.

After South Africa, Roland and I went to Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. We were only there for one full day, during which we saw the Falls in the morning and took a cruise along the Zambezi River in the late afternoon. When the crew asked us how we liked Africa, we told them we loved it but were disappointed that we hadn’t seen elephants.

We were heading for the top of the Falls on the Zambia side when the captain suddenly turned the boat around. I was confused until he said he had heard of an elephant sighting and was taking us there. Roland and I were grateful to the captain when we saw our first pair of elephants. They were off in the distance on an island but recognizable by the naked eye and well within range of my 300 mm lens. After a while we turned around again and finished our trip to the top of the Falls, or at least as close as it was safe to go. And on the return trip we saw two more elephants. I’m not sure how you can tell one pair of elephants from another, but these were on a different island so we are pretty sure they weren’t the same ones.

So what does our chase after elephants have to teach about writing? I am getting ready to start looking for a publisher for the murder mystery I wrote as my pandemic project, and a writer’s search for a publisher can feel equally hopeless as we submit and submit and submit with no success. But persistence paid off in our search for an elephant, and that’s the writing lesson here. If you don’t give up, you’ll eventually find someone to publish your book.

In the meantime, keep chasing those elephants.

Lighthouse Daughters--Ida Lewis

 

Reprinted from the 7-29-13 post.

Abbie Burgess Grant was a well-known, romantic figure in her day, but Ida Lewis may have been the most famous of the lighthouse daughters.

Idawalley (Ida) Zorada Lewis’s father was appointed keeper of the beacon on Lime Rock in 1853, but he did not move his family there until 1857, after the government constructed a dwelling on the tiny island. The oldest of four children, Ida was 15 when they moved to the lighthouse.

Four months later, Ida’s father had a paralyzing stroke. Between them, Ida and her mother managed both the lighthouse and a household that included Ida’s paralyzed father and an invalid sister. Because of these responsibilities, Ida did not have time to attend school. She did play an important role in her siblings’ education, however.

The lighthouse was surrounded by water. The only way to make the one-third mile trip to shore was by boat. Ida was already an excellent swimmer, and she now became an excellent rower as she ferried her siblings to and from school. She also picked up supplies when needed.

A newspaper article credited Ida’s father with this quote:

            Again and again I have seen the children from this window as they were returning from school in some heavy blow, when Ida alone was with them, and old sailor that I am, I felt that I would not give a penny for their lives, so furious was the storm.

But Ida always got them home safely.

Ida’s rowing and swimming skills were to make her famous. She is officially credited with saving 18 lives, but she kept no records and the actual count is probably much higher.

The first recorded rescue occurred in 1858, when Ida was sixteen. Four boys went out for a sail, and one of them decided to show off by climbing to the top of the mast and rocking the boat back and forth. The boat capsized, and the four youths struggled to hold on to the overturned boat. Ida rowed over and pulled each of the four into her own boat.

Several of Ida’s rescues occurred when soldiers were returning to Fort Adams after a night of too much drinking. It strained the wiry Ida to pull these uncooperative men into her boat, but she never thought twice before helping them.

At one of those times, Ida was sick with a cold and was warming her feet at the fire when her mother cried out that a boat had overturned. Ida ran to the soldiers’ aid without taking time to put on a coat or shoes. With the help of a younger brother, she pulled two men into her boat in the middle of a snowstorm. She later received a Congressional medal for this rescue.

Because the lighthouse was so close to shore, and with Ida’s growing fame as a rescuer, tourists swarmed over the tiny island, interrupting the family's solitude and leaving litter and destruction everywhere. Ida also had some famous visitors, including President Ulysses S. Grant.

After a four-year engagement to William Wilson, Ida married him in 1870 and quickly regretted it. Although she never got a divorce, she soon returned—alone—to Lime Rock.

Ida and her mother continued to keep the Lime Rock Light for Ida’s father until his death in 1872, when Ida’s mother became the official keeper. Ida received the appointment in 1879 and continued it until her death in 1911.

* * * * *

For more information on Ida Lewis and Lime Rock Light Station, see pages 42-48 of Mind the Light, Katie and/or check out the following websites:

http://www.lighthousefriends.com/light.asp?ID=398

http://www.us-lighthouses.com/displaypage.php?LightID=412

* * * * *

The illustration shows Ida Lewis on the cover of the July 31, 1869 issue of Harper’s Weekly.

Lighthouse Daughters--Abbie Burgess (Grant)

 

Reprinted from 7-22-13 post.

Unlike Catherine Moore, Abbie Burgess did not have to go outside to light the lights. The 28 lamps hung in two stone towers attached to opposite ends of the keeper’s dwelling. But that didn’t mean it was an easy life.

Matinicus Rock Light Station was a lonely, barren outcropping located five miles from Maine’s Matinicus Island and twenty miles from the mainland. Fourteen-year-old Abbie moved there in 1853 when her father received the lighthouse keeper’s job. At the time of the move, the family also consisted of Abbie’s invalid mother, an older brother who was usually gone with the fishing boats, and two younger sisters. (Abbie also had other siblings, all older, who no longer lived at home.)

Abbie’s father wanted to earn additional money as a lobster fisherman, so he trained Abbie to help with the lights while he was away.

A lighthouse tender was supposed to bring supplies twice a year, but it wasn’t dependable. By January 1856, the delivery due September 1855 had still not arrived. Desperate for supplies, Abbie’s father sailed to Matinicus Island for food and medicine, leaving seventeen-year-old Abbie in charge of the light. A month-long gale blew in soon after he left, and it was weeks before he could return.

Worried about the dwelling’s low-lying position, Abbie moved her family into one of the towers. She wrote this in a letter to a friend:

            You know the hens were our only companions. Being convinced, as the gale increased, that unless they were brought into the house they would be lost, I said to mother: “I must try to save them.” She advised me not to attempt it. The thought, however, of parting with them without an effort was not to be endured, so seizing a basket, I ran out a few yards after the rollers had passed and the sea fell off a little, with the water knee deep, to the coop, and rescued all but one. It was the work of a moment, and I was back in the house with the door fastened, but none too quick, for at that instant my little sister, standing at a window, exclaimed, “Oh, look! look there! the worst sea is coming!”

Through it all, Abbie kept the lights burning.

The job as lighthouse keeper was a political appointment, and Abbie’s father lost his position to a Republican appointee in 1860. Abbie stayed to help the new keeper and fell in love with his son, Isaac Grant. Isaac and Abbie raised four children and remained on Matinicus Rock until 1875, when they transferred to Whitehead Light near Spruce Head, Maine. Both resigned in 1890 due to Abbie’s poor health. She died two years later at the age of 53.

* * * * *

For more information on Abbie Burgess Grant and Matinicus Rock Light Station, see pages 21-25 of Mind the Light, Katie and/or check out the following websites:

http://www.lighthousefriends.com/light.asp?ID=535

http://www.nelights.com/exploring/Maine/matinicus_rock_light.html

* * * * *

The picture is the cover illustration from the May 2, 1882 issue of Harper’s Young People: An Illustrated Weekly. Abbie Burgess may have been the inspiration for the drawing.

Lighthouse Daughters--Catherine Moore

 

Reprinted from 7-15-13 post.

At least three female U.S. lighthouse keepers started their careers before they reached maturity. Although their fathers were the official lighthouse keepers, they soon became the primary workers.

Mind the Light, Katie, by Mary Louise Clifford and J. Candice Clifford, includes the stories of Catherine Moore, Abbie Burgess Grant, and Ida Lewis. Each is a fascinating female who deserves her own post.

Catherine (Kate) Moore was twelve in 1817 when her father became lighthouse keeper at Black Rock Light Station off the north shore of Long Island Sound (in Connecticut). She started assisting him immediately. When he was injured two years later, Kate took over his duties and remained unofficial lighthouse keeper until her father’s death in 1871. It was a long time to serve without official recognition, but perhaps she was happy to give that honor to her father.

Years later, Kate described her evening routine:

During windy nights it was impossible to keep [the lights] burning at all, and I had to stay there all night, but on other nights I slept at home, dressed in a suit of boys’ clothes, my lighted lantern hanging at my headboard and my face turned so that I could see shining on the wall the light from the tower and know if anything happened to it. Our house was forty rods [about 700 feet] from the lighthouse, and to reach it I had to walk across tow planks under which on stormy nights were four feet of water, and it was not too easy to stay on those slippery, wet boards with the wind whirling and the spray blinding me.

Kate’s light was located on Fayerweather Island. She planted a garden and kept a number of animals, which were her main playmates. As she grew older, she carved and sold duck decoys and had a thriving oyster business. She is credited with saving 21 lives during her years at the lighthouse.

After her father’s death, Kate received the official appointment and continued on until she retired in 1878. She lived another twenty-plus years in a house with a view of Fayerweather Island and Long Island Sound.

Although Kate never married and knew no other life, she appears to have been happy enough. Still, when asked during her retirement years if she missed her island home, she said, “Never. The sea is a treacherous friend.”

* * * * *

For more information on Catherine Moore and Black Rock Light Station, see pages 7-10 of Mind the Light, Katie and/or check out the following website:

http://www.lighthousefriends.com/light.asp?ID=789

* * * * *

The picture from the Coast Guard shows Black Rock Light Station as it probably looked when Catherine Moore served there.

Womanning the Lights on Southern Lake Michigan

 

Since I’m writing a book about a girl who lives in a lighthouse, I decided to reprint a related series of blog posts from 2013. This one was posted on July 8, 2013.

Womanning the Lights on Southern Lake Michigan

Yes, that’s what it says. “Womanning” the lights, not manning them.

Mind the Light, Katie, by Mary Louise Clifford and J. Candice Clifford, tells the story of thirty-three female lighthouse keepers, including two that kept the lights burning on the southern tip of Lake Michigan, not too far from where I live.

Harriet Colfax “wommaned” the Michigan City Light Station from 1861-1904. Unlike most female keepers, she was neither a lighthouse keeper’s widow nor a lighthouse keeper’s daughter. She seems to have just decided to do it. And with a cousin in high places (he was a U.S. Congressman at the time), she asked for and received the appointment.

Small of stature and frail in appearance, Harriet was not an obvious candidate for the position, which at times required her to lug the oil for the lamps across fragile walkways in gale conditions. Yet she managed to fulfill her duties faithfully for 43 years.

The lights did go out at times, but that was the weather’s fault, not Harriet’s. Her log entries record her struggle keeping up the light on the west pier. During storms, she reached the light by walking along a wooden catwalk elevated above the pier. The catwalk kept her above the huge waves that swept over the pier, but the catwalk had its own dangers, and the wind damaged it numerous times. In October 1886, Harriet fought a long, hard struggle against the gale to light the lamps. As she returned to shore, she turned around and saw the entire tower fall into the sea.

In spite of the hardships of the job, Harriet maintained the Michigan City lights until failing health caused her to retire at the age of 80. There were probably times when she hated her job, but her 43-year career makes me think that it must have mostly given her satisfaction.

Not so for Mary Ryan, who kept the Calumet Harbor Entrance Light for seven years (1873-1880) after her husband died. Her log entries don’t paint a picture of a happy woman. They include the following comments.

• “This is such a dreary place to be all alone in.” (December 1873)
•  “Oh for a home in the sunny south.” (April 1874)
• “I think some changes will have to be made this is not a fit place for anyone to live in.” (April 1880)
• “Oh what a place.” (August 1880)
• “This is all gloom and darkness.” (November 1880)

Or maybe it was just the climate she despised, not the lightkeeping duties themselves. After all, she did stick it out for seven years.

Stay tuned to find out how the younger generation reacted to lighthouse living.

* * * * *

For more information on Harriet Colfax and the Michigan City Light Station, see pages 49-56 of Mind the Light, Katie and/or check out the following websites:

http://www.oldlighthousemuseum.org/lighhouse_history.html

http://www.terrypepper.com/lights/michigan/michcityold/

http://www.us-lighthouses.com/displaypage.php?LightID=309

For more information on Mary Ryan and the Calumet Harbor Entrance Light Station, see pages 57-58 of Mind the Light, Katie and/or check out the following website:

http://www.lighthousefriends.com/light.asp?ID=845

* * * * *

The picture at the head of this post shows the current Michigan City East Pierhead Light. That light was not constructed until 1904, around the time that Harriet Colfax retired, so she might not have lighted it. Still, the catwalk in the picture—suspended high above the pier—is probably similar to the one on the west pier that gave Harriet Colfax so much trouble.

Character Confusion

 

My current work in progress has three shipwrecked sailors as secondary characters. They enter the story a little over halfway through and are gone within four chapters.

I researched the types of jobs that sailors do on ocean freighters and decided to make the characters a third mate, an assistant cook, and a deckhand. So far, so good.

Then I had to come up with names. Normally, I go through my name lists (first names popular in that time period and last names gathered from a number of sources) until I come across something that just sounds right. Using that process, I decided on Davis Blakeman for the third mate, Elliot Campbell for the cook, and Pete Quilly for the deckhand.

But when I wrote the chapters, I was getting them confused. And if I’m confused, readers certainly will be. So how do I make each individual sailor stand out from the crowd?

My protagonist may think of them by their roles, so sometimes I refer to them as the third mate, the cook, or the deckhand. But that gets tiring if I do it all the time. And a twelve-year-old living in 1925 would refer to them as Mr. Blakeman, Mr. Campbell, and Mr. Quilly. But keeping those names straight was where the confusion came in.

For a second or two I thought about getting cutesy and calling them Mr. Boss, Mr. Chef, and Mr. Workman, but that was way too corny. So I came up with a more subtle way to remember them and changed two of the names. Elliot Campbell still worked, but the third mate became Matthew Tate and the deckhand became Henry Duke.

Here is how my protagonist remembers them:

Putting her hand in front of her mouth, Jessie stifled a giggle. Did they realize their last names all started with the same letter as their job? Then she grinned. And Tate rhymed with mate. She wouldn’t have any trouble remembering him.

There are other subtleties here, too, which readers might pick up on their own but which don’t hurt anything if they go unnoticed. The cook’s last name is a popular brand of soup, and the deckhand’s first name starts with the same letter as “hand.” But those are just bonuses.

The important thing is that I no longer have to stop and think which sailor I’m talking about when Jessie uses their last names.

And that’s a win for readers, too.

Listening to Your Characters

 

Sunday’s sermon talked about God as the potter and we, His creations, as the clay. We can’t tell Him what to do, although we try anyway.

Fiction works like that, too. I create the characters, and I get to tell them what to do. But sometimes they have a mind of their own. When that happens, it’s my job to decide whether to let them follow it.

And sometimes I do.

God also lets us follow our own way sometimes. But no matter why He does so, one thing is clear: God knows us better than we know ourselves.

And that’s where the analogy breaks down.

Two weeks ago I mentioned that the fatal flaw I had tried to give my protagonist wasn’t working. In a sense, she was telling me that I didn’t understand her, that even though she liked being with her friends, she loved her family more. So I will try to listen more carefully when I write the second draft.

Because sometimes the characters know themselves better than I do.

Back to the Fair

 

The Lake County Fair took a hiatus last year for COVID 19, and I suffered from withdrawal. So this year I submitted twelve photos and earned two red ribbons.

Technically, I could have entered twenty-four photos—one each in each of the twelve color categories and one in each of the twelve black-and-white categories. But in some of those categories I either had nothing at all (e.g., I had no sports photographs taken within the last three years) or I didn’t like what I did have (e.g., domestic/farm animals). And that was my criteria. I didn’t have to love it, but I didn’t want it to embarrass me, either.

It was easy to decide what to enter in the color Artistic Effects category since I had only one that I really liked. The photo of the Grand Canal in Venice at the head of this post was the first of my two red ribbons.

Since I was only allowed to enter one photo in each category, other decisions were harder. That was especially true of the wildlife categories, where I had a number of choices. I’m glad I ended up with the seagull for the color one, since that was the other red ribbon and I don’t think I had anything that could have beaten the first place entry anyway. I chose the seagull because the lines from the seawall and the fence give it an interesting and unusual composition.

My second choice was this iguana. It’s a nice photo but too conventional.

I also considered entering the iguana as a black-and-white wildlife photo, but I think it loses a lot of its interest without the color.

It’s still a good picture that wouldn’t have embarrassed me, but here again I had several choices and ended up going with something a little less conventional. The photo of the geese ready to take flight didn’t win any ribbons, but I doubt the black-and-white iguana would have done any better.

My favorite photo didn’t win anything, either, but I’m still proud of it, especially since portraits are not my strength. Deciding which one to enter wasn’t hard since I had only one. Here it is just for fun.

I’ll never know if I would have done better if I had made different selections, but that’s part of being an artist. What I like and what appeals to others isn’t always the same.

And I’m fine with that.

That Pesky Fatal Flaw

 

There are no hard core rules for fiction—they can all be broken if the writer does it intentionally to achieve a particular effect. But one of the stronger “suggestions” is that a protagonist should grow during a novel by starting with a fatal flaw that the protagonist overcomes by the end of the story. That’s not always the case, of course. James Bond has no fatal flaw and no growth, and I find him incredibly boring. Indiana Jones doesn’t grow through the course of the story, either, but he does start with a fatal flaw—his fear of snakes—that is still there at the end, and he has several other quirks that make him human and allow me to enjoy those movies. But unlike those characters, each of my protagonists needs to start with a fatal flaw and to overcome it by the end of the book.

So what’s the problem?

The first question is how to incorporate the fatal flaw into the first chapter without making the character so unlikeable that the reader gives up on the story too soon. I’ve read many an Amazon review where the reviewer put the book down after the first chapter because the protagonist was “too whiny” or “too selfish,” or something similar. If that characteristic is the fatal flaw, then the reader missed the point and the author allowed it. Sohow do I find the sweet spot that discloses the fatal flaw without making the character unlikeable? The only way I know is to write and revise and write and revise until my sixth sense—and my beta readers—says I have achieved it.

The second problem is finding the appropriate fatal flaw. When I started writing Lonely Rock, I was convinced that Jessie’s fatal flaw would be valuing her friends more than her family. But as I continue to write, that isn’t coming through. So now I’m wondering if I chose poorly. I’m not sure this is the right spot to experiment with a different fatal flaw, but I’ve made myself a note to work on it in the next draft and maybe change Jessie’s fatal flaw to self-doubt and/or fearfulness.

One thing is clear: Jessie needs a fatal flaw that creates empathy rather than disgust.

And I’m determined to get it right.

The story starts here--or does it?

 

Writers, myself included, often begin a story too early, giving a lot of background before reaching the place where the story really starts. We justify it by saying the background is necessary to the plot or characterization of the novel, which, even if true, is just an excuse for bad writing since it can usually be woven into the story when it becomes relevant. As I said, I’ve been guilty of this too and had to force myself to go back and cut out pages or even chapters at the beginning of the manuscript.

But my current work in progress, Lonely Rock, is different. This time I started too late.

In my original first chapter, Jessie and her friends were looking forward to a fun summer. That would have been fine if the book was about what happened to Jessie and her friends over the summer. I started there because I wanted to show the reader what Jessie was like, and she is all about her friends. But the real story involves Jessie’s move to a lighthouse, and the friends exit offstage. If I start the book with them, readers will expect these walk-on players to have major roles and will be disappointed when that expectation isn’t met.

That chapter also introduced too many people at once. Aside from Jessie’s three friends, I had various townspeople show up to make the scene more interesting. That can be confusing to a reader.

The second chapter introduced the other major players—Jessie’s family. And there were no extraneous characters to confuse the reader.

So what did I do? I switched the two chapters with a few minor changes to the timeline and how I introduced the setting. To make it work, I had to move the story back several days. I think I also managed to find a way to introduce readers to Jessie’s personality without having her friends present. But this is the first draft, so it may change again.

Because maybe there’s an even better place to start.

Lighthouse Travel Research--The Inadequacies of Written Description

 

I fell in love during my research trip. Not with Roland, which was already a given. No, I fell in love with the Fresnel lenses still in use in some lighthouses today.¹

Fresnel lenses are not lights themselves but are made up of hundreds of pieces of specially cut glass surrounding a lamp. Their role is to reflect and magnify the light shining inside, making it visible for miles. And they are beautiful.

The closest I can come to showing you their beauty is to provide some photographs, but even those are woefully inadequate. The photo at the top of this page is a 4^th Order lens in the museum at Beavertail Light in Rhode Island.

Fresnel lenses are graded by size, with 1^st Order lenses beging the largest and 6^th Order lenses the smallest, as you can see in the second photo. I have never seen a 1^st Order lens, which is big enough for a man to walk inside, but we did see a 2^nd Order lens at the Maine Lighthouse Museum in Rockland. That’s the third photo.

The remaining two lenses are shown in their natural habitats. The fourth photo is the Sixth Order lens at Rose Island Light in Rhode Island, where we got to climb to the lantern room. The final is another 4^th Order lens, this time seen from below at Pemaquid Point Lighthouse in Maine.

But the question I’m posing in this post, and the one I’m struggling with right now, is how to describe the indescribable. Even the photos don’t do Fresnel lenses justice, so words never will. Still, there are times when a writer has to try. Here is my poor attempt to show my protagonist’s reaction the first time she climbs the tower and sees the lens.

Jessie couldn’t stop staring at the shimmering glass object in the center of the room. Beehive-shaped and almost as tall as Dad, it was prettier than any jewel she had ever seen.

“Is that the light?” she asked.

“No. The light comes from a lamp inside. This is a third order Fresnel lens that reflects and magnifies the light.”

Jessie could have looked at it forever.

This is just the first draft, so maybe I’ll be able to come up with a better description before I finish the book.

But it still won’t come close to describing the indescribable.

__________

¹ So where did Fresnel lenses come from? In the early 1800s, a French committee was formed to study improvements in lighthouse illumination. One of the committee members was Augustin Fresnel, whose design was adopted all over the world. For more information on the history and operation of Fresnel lenses, see the National Park Service article at www.nps.gov/articles/fresnel-lens.htm.