Juggling Two Sets of Readers

 

Writing a historical novel as a column involves two sets of readers: my twenty-first century American readers and the column’s World War II-era British readers. Unfortunately, their knowledge is decades and continents apart. So how can I fill in my readers’ information gaps without insulting the column readers’ intelligence by telling them things they already know?

Part of the answer depends on how important the information is to the story. For example, the school system in Britain during World War II was very different from the one we are used to in America and has even changed significantly since then. My online critique partner was confused when I called a twelve-year-old girl a senior and wondered if I should explain the system. Unfortunately, I couldn’t come up with a good way to do so without insulting the column readers’ intelligence. Since it isn’t crucial to the story, I decided it was better to leave my present-day readers with an unanswered question. (If they really care, they can always look it up on the internet—an option that wasn’t available to Jane’s readers.)

If the information is important to the story, the answer changes. Jane’s readers would have known when the evacuation of school children began and how it worked, but most of my readers won’t. Since it is a significant part of the story, I have tried to weave it in here and there in a way that comes naturally.

I can best demonstrate that approach with an example about rationing. Jane’s readers would have known which items were rationed at the time, but my readers don’t. The following passage comes from a column about a meeting of the Sewing Circle at the home of a farmer’s wife. This a from the first draft and may change, but it should give you the idea.

In the middle of the afternoon, we took a break for refreshments. My mouth watered when I saw the scones and what accompanied them. The Wares had cows, so I wasn’t surprised at the clotted cream, but jam had just been added to the rationed list.

“I thought you all deserved a treat,” Mrs. Ware said as she put the scones on plates and added a spoonful of cream and another of jam to each one. “I was overrun with strawberries last year, and I still have half-dozen jars of the jam I made from them.”

“You’re much too generous,” Mrs. Wicker said.

Mrs. Ware shook her head. “We’re all that way, and we’ll pay each other back eventually.”

That isn’t true, of course. I don’t have room to host the Sewing Circle, and I’m probably not the only one.

Mrs. Wickers took a sip of tea before speaking again. “It’s the sugar ration that bothers me most. Martin has such a sweet tooth, and with three young Londoners in the house, I’d love to give them all a treat now and then.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, I can’t seem to save enough coupons.”

Cathy nodded. “We wouldn’t have had enough sugar and butter for my wedding cake if Mum hadn’t begged coupons from her sisters and all our friends and neighbors.”

Even this passage has some elements of telling Jane’s readers what they already know, such as the part that says “jam had just been added to the rationed list.” I’m working on it, though.

It’s always a challenge to tell my readers what they need to know without telling Jane’s readers what they already know.

But that’s part of writing good fiction.

A Hard Job

 

Good writing is like climbing a mountain. It takes time and hard work as well as skill.

As I’ve mentioned before, my current novel is written in the form of weekly newspaper columns. At one point I have my protagonist tell her readers, “I can imagine what you are thinking. How can it take two days to write a 1,000-word column?” My online critique partner’s response was, “I never thought that.”

Of course she hadn’t, because she’s a writer, too, but many people do. And I’m not the only writer who feels that way.

Here are a few quotes about how writers are treated by the uninitiated.

It has always seemed to me that if you have a hope of making a living as an artist – writer, musician, whatever – you absolutely must learn to tell people to leave you alone, and to mean it, and to eject them from your life if they don’t respect that. This is necessary not because your job is more important than anyone else’s – it isn’t – but because a great many people will think of you as not having a job. [Poppy Z. Brite]

 

A successful businesswoman had the temerity to ask me about my royalties, just at the time when my books were at last making reasonable earnings. When told, she was duly impressed, and remarked, “And to think that most people would have had to work so hard for that.” [Madeline L’Engle, Walking on Water (1980), ch. 7]

 

A young friend of mine was asked what she did, and when she replied she was a poet, the inquirer responded, amused, “Oh, I didn’t mean your hobby.” [Madeline L’Engle, Walking on Water (1980), ch. 7]

And here is how writers respond:

Writing a book is a long, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. [George Orwell, Why I Write, 1947]

 

Writing is the hardest work in the world. I have been a bricklayer and a truck driver, and I tell you – as if you haven’t been told a million times already – that writing is harder. Lonelier. And nobler and more enriching. [Harlan Ellison]

 

I would never encourage anyone to be a writer. It’s too hard. [Eudora Welty]

 

A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. [Thomas Mann, Essays of Three Decades, 1947]

 

Sure, it’s simple writing for kids . . . Just as simple as bringing them up. [Ursula K. LeGuin]

 I’ll end there because I need to return to my mountain climbing.

A Weather Interlude

 

I walk for exercise, and lately the heat and humidity have forced me to take my walks in the condo’s underground parking garage. I listen to audio books while lapping the garage multiple times, but the “scenery” is pretty boring. So I was glad for several days of cooler weather recently when I could enjoy nature’s scenery.

The pink flowers seen above were shot along one of the walking paths by my condo, as were the photos that follow this paragraph. The white butterflies are common, but I was pleased to capture two of them in the same image. (I’m not sure, but I think they are cabbage butterflies.)

On Tuesday I went to the Gibson Woods Nature Preserve, where I saw butterflies, flowers, and birds. When I started along the path, the swallowtail butterflies were flitting by everywhere. Unfortunately, they refused to pose for me. By the time I located them in the viewfinder and clicked the shutter, they were gone.

Fortunately, the monarchs were more cooperative. The second picture at the top of this post was taken in Gibson Woods, as were the three below. In the first, the flower has seen better days but is still food for the bees. Hopefully you can pick out the bee in the upper left quadrant. The next photo is a different monarch, and the last was taken through a viewing window in the nature center.

I’m back to walking inside, but it was nice while it lasted.

Writing Advice from C.S. Lewis

 

C.S. Lewis is one of my favorite authors and, although I don’t usually read fantasy, I love the Narnia series. As a writer, I especially enjoy the insights from C.S. Lewis Letters to Children, which was compiled by Lyle W. Dorsett and Marjorie Lamp Mead. The following advice is quoted from Lewis’ June 26, 1956 letter to a child named Joan. The numbering, the italics, and the rest of the text are taken directly from the book.

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1.     Always try to use the language so as to make quite clear what you mean and make sure y[ou]r. sentence couldn’t mean anything else.

2.     Always prefer the plain direct word to the long, vague one. Don’t implement promises, but keep them.

3.     Never use abstract nouns when concrete ones will do. If you mean “More people died” don’t say “Mortality rose.”

4.     In writing. Don’t use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was “terrible,” describe it so that we’ll be terrified. Don’t say it was “delightful”; make us say “delightful” when we’ve read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers “Please will you do my job for me.”

5.     Don’t use words too big for the subject. Don’t say “infinitely” when you mean “very”; otherwise you’ll have no word left when you want to talk about something really infinite.

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All writers should take this advice to heart. Unfortunately, I fail sometimes because I’ve still got a lot to learn.

But I’m trying.