Sacrificing Grammar for Realism

 

One of the advantages of writing in the third person is that you can zoom in to the POV character’s thoughts or zoom out to an objective account. To use a not very good example, here is the same incident from the two ends of the spectrum.

Blasted sand. Hot and gritty. Annoying when wearing shoes, but unbearably painful in bare feet.

On the hottest day of the summer, an elderly man walked along the beach carrying his shoes and scowling.

I tend to write nearer to but not at the closest zoom-in point, reflecting the character’s thoughts without getting right into his head. To use the same incident:

Dave hated the beach, especially on such a hot day where the sand burned his feet. If his shoes didn’t pinch so badly, he'd put them back on.

Here we get insight into Dave’s emotions (he hated the beach), his physical discomfort (the sand burned his feet), and his motivation in going barefoot (his shoes pinched). Yet we aren’t quite in his head since he wouldn’t think of himself as “Dave” or “he.”

In using this point on the zoom spectrum, I try to include the POV character’s prejudices and wrong conclusions. For example, if Dave thinks his wife doesn’t love him, the narrative would say, “Millie didn’t love him,” even though she does. I don’t say, “he thought Millie didn’t love him” or put those thoughts in italics, because that would zoom me out further than I want to go.

On the other hand, I may not follow his thinking completely if the grammar would make me wince. I’m not talking about dialogue here, where the reader expects to hear it the way the character would say it. But what about in narrative that is supposed to match his thoughts?

That’s the dilemma I am facing in my current writing project. My POV character, Matthew, is self-centered. Instead of “Pa, Jackson, and me,” he would think of “me, Pa, and Jackson.” I’ve been doing it the way he would think it, but it makes me wince. Worse, it makes me wonder if the reader will put the story down because he or she thinks I don’t know my grammar. So what am I to do?

Fortunately, I still have time to figure it out.

Ambiguous Characters

 

Ambiguity can be good or bad, depending on the writer’s purpose. If a writer is looking for clarity, then ambiguity is his or her enemy. If the writer wants to keep the reader guessing, however, then ambiguity is his or her friend. This is true of characters as well as events and circumstances.

Professor Snape from J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series is a good example. Is he friend or foe? Most of the time he looks like a villain, and then something happens and you wonder. Even if you think you’ve figured it out by the end of a book, the next one makes you question your earlier conclusion. It isn’t until the end of the series that we discover the answer. And no, I’m not going to spoil it for you.

The photo at the top of this post shows a Jack of Clubs that I intentionally distorted to make it ambiguous. If you look closely you can tell it’s a Jack, although the clubs are harder to see. That’s what happens with an ambiguous character. The reader gets enough detail to make out the character’s more superficial traits, but the deeper ones are unclear.

I used the Jack of Clubs to represent an ambiguous character in one of my current works-in-progress, which takes place in 1850 when gambling had fewer restrictions than it does now. My protagonist, Matthew, is befriended by Addison, who is a professional gambler. At first, Addison won’t let fourteen-year-old Matthew join in his poker games, declaring that Matthew is too young and too naïve. Eventually, however, he allows Matthew to play with ever-increasing amounts of money until Matthew steals money from his father and loses it all to his supposed friend.

When Matthew confronts the gambler about his betrayal, Addison says he was concerned about Matthew getting addicted and wanted to shock him into understanding that gambling doesn’t pay. Then the conversation continues as follows. (Keep in mind that this is the first draft and will probably change.)

“If you’re trying to teach me a lesson, I’ve learned it.” Matthew swallowed. “So you can give the money back now.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think you have learned it, and if I return the money, you never will.”

So is Addison a good guy or a bad guy? I don’t even know myself.

But sometimes a little ambiguity is a good thing.

Dueling Points of View

 

I’m trying something new with my current work. I had already completed the story of a twelve-year-old girl crossing the Isthmus of Panama with her family while heading to the California gold fields in 1850. However, Across the Isthmus is aimed at middle-grade girls, and I wanted to do something similar for boys.

The female protagonist in Across the Isthmus has a fourteen-year-old brother, so I am challenging myself by trying to write the same basic story from his point-of-view. Nobody sees the same events in the exact same way, and one POV character may concentrate on entirely different matters than another does. Still, if both narrators are reliable, shared scenes should contain a lot of similarities. Finding the right balance between “facts” and “perceptions” is a challenge, especially when it comes to dialogue.

Most stories (including mine) need dialogue to keep them interesting, and, of necessity, both books share some dialogue. As in real life, the two characters are unlikely to both remember the conversation word-for-word, but the contents at least should be close (again, given that they are reliable narrators). But when the characters don’t remember it the same, how much variation can I get away with?

That wouldn’t be a problem if I could be sure that the two books would have no common readers. They are being written for different audiences—one for girls and one for boys—but that is no guarantee that the same person won’t read both. I don’t want a reader to say, “That wasn’t what it said in the other book,” but I also don’t want the reader to toss the second book aside as unrealistic because the two characters have such great memories that they remember the conversation (and the facts) exactly the same way. This is a real dilemma that I am struggling with as I write.

The challenge is to find the line between making the stories different enough to account for the two points of view but similar enough to show them experiencing the same circumstances.

These types of challenges make writing hard work.

But they are also what makes it fun.

__________

The photo at the head of this post shows an 1850 painting by Charles Christian Nahl titled “Der Isthmus von Panama auf der Höhe des Chargres River” (“The Isthmus of Panama at the Height of the Chargres River”).

Following Lewis and Clark

 

Roland and I just returned from a cruise on the Columbia and Snake Rivers, following part of Lewis and Clark’s route. Actually, I’m not sure “following” is the right word, since we started closer to the end and moved backwards. Or maybe it is, because they used the same route to return to St. Louis.

The photo shows the confluence of the Snake (on the right) and the Columbia (on the left). Lewis and Clark came up the Snake to the Columbia, which they followed to the Pacific Ocean.

Most people don’t know that their mission was a failure. That is to say, they failed in their first objective, which was to find a water route from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean. They failed for the simple reason that no such route exists.

In a broader sense, though, the mission was a huge success. The Corps of Discovery, as it was officially called, mapped its way from St. Louis to the Pacific, making friends with the Native Americans and recording new plant and animal species along the way.

It was a success in another way, as well. The men suffered much hardship, but in a day when explorers had a high death rate, only one man died, and he had a burst appendix. That may be because of the medical information the expedition carried in its library of books on plants, animals, and medicine. The next photo lists the contents of the traveling library.

I thought about trying to write a middle-grade historical novel about the expedition, but the youngest member of the Corps of Discovery was probably about seventeen or eighteen and I’m not sure how well I would be able to portray him to a younger audience. Besides, I have lots of other plot ideas vying for my time.

Still, I may reconsider someday.

Ringing Merrily

 

I mentioned two weeks ago that my mother played in a handbell choir at her local retirement center. My daughter and son-in-law also play bells. Since I can read music, it seems logical for me to play bells, too, but I lacked confidence.

When I sing in a choir, everyone in my section is on the same note. If I make a mistake, it is usually covered up. Playing handbells is different since there is only one person on each note. If someone messes up there, it’s more obvious. And I was scared that my mistakes would stand out.

Then our music director lost several of her handbell choir players at the same time, and she was desperate for replacements, so I let myself be talked into joining.

In my old age, I’ve become more willing to practice. I mentioned two weeks ago that I practiced the piano as little as possible, and even though I enjoyed violin more, I didn’t practice that as much as I should have, either. But with bells I practice regularly at home.

The photo at the top of this post shows my practice setup. I place my music on a stand on the kitchen peninsula and use homemade but soundless “bells” as I play. The “bells” are actually part of a children’s game to catch a ball in the cup, and I colored their handles to match the colors that I use to mark the notes on my music. Since there are often many bells playing at once, assigning each of my notes a color makes it easier to pick them out when I play.

You may wonder what good it does to practice with soundless bells. The main point is to count and learn when to play which bell and also whether it is a normal ringing motion or something else, such as shaking the bell or tapping it on the table. And since my few notes don’t make a melody, the sound made by playing just my bells without the rest wouldn’t help, anyway.

I was very nervous when we started in September, and I still am. I make plenty of mistakes, but they are getting fewer, and I was satisfied with my performance on two of the three pieces we played on Easter. Everyone had trouble with the third one, and misery loves company, so my mistakes didn’t devastate me.

Still, I look forward to the day when my confidence is high and my mistakes are minimal. Until then, I guess I’ll just keep muddling along.

For the Love of Singing

 

I have sung in choirs most of my life. I spent most of my growing-up years in DeTour Village, Michigan, in a small school without a choir, but I sang in the junior choir at church as soon as I was old enough. Then, when I reached high school, I moved up to the adult choir.

In those younger days, the only year I didn’t sing in a church choir was when Daddy took a sabbatical to Edinburgh, Scotland. There we visited around from one church to another, so I didn’t have a church home. Fortunately, however, the school I attended had a choir, and I passed the easy audition and joined it. So I still got to sing.

Just before my junior year in high school, we moved to Lake City, Michigan. I continued to sing in the adult choir at church, but I was glad to see that Lake City High School had a chorus. I sang in it my junior year but was unable to continue for my senior year. That was because, as a small school, it only had one physics class, and it conflicted with chorus. It was a hard decision, but I was adamantly on the college prep path, so I chose physics. Fortunately, I still had senior choir at church to fill the void.

For two of my high school years, Mama and I sang in an area choir that met for a month or so each year to rehearse and perform Handel’s Messiah. When I say an area choir, I mean that it included several communities and we had to drive a ways for rehearsals and the performance. Unfortunately, I can’t remember if that was my freshman and sophomore years when we lived at DeTour Village or my junior and senior years when we lived at Lake City. I’m also not sure whether we did the Christmas or the Easter section of the Messiah, although I think it was the Easter one.

I sang in the college chorus my freshman year at Hope. The next step up was a more elite choir that required auditions, and I didn’t make it. Obviously, I wasn’t destined to make my living as a singer, although that wasn’t my goal, anyway. I just wanted to sing, so I joined the choir at the church I attended regularly.

From then on, I always sang in my church choir except for a several-year period when I was taking graduate courses that conflicted with practice. But as soon as I could return to choir, I did.

My vocal range is quite good, and I have sung both alto and soprano. I prefer soprano, but there have been years when more altos were needed, and I obliged. Even when I sing soprano, though, I keep up with my alto. I usually sing soprano on the first and last stanzas of hymns and alto on the middle ones. Caroline picked up the practice from me when she was young.

I am on the far left in the picture at the top of this page. The photo was taken by our choir director, Karen Foote, on January 14, 2024. The temperature was seven degrees below zero that morning, and Karen’s mother said the choir would never show up to sing at the 8:00 a.m. service. Karen took the photo to prove her wrong. (The only people who were missing had already notified Karen they would be absent for other reasons.)

Some day I’ll have to give up choir. It may be because my voice gives out but is more likely to be because my knees do. I dread the day I am no longer able to climb the steep stairs to the choir loft.

But I will never stop singing.

The Wagner Inheritance

 

Last week I talked about the travel bug that my family got from my father, so its only fair that I give my mother equal time. She passed down her love for music and some of her musical ability. I don’t say all of it, because she was a better musician than I am.

My daughter Caroline also benefited from Mama’s musical inheritance. Caroline sings in her church choir and in other choirs whenever she has the chance, and she directs the chime choir at her church.

I grew up with music. Both my parents loved classical music, and Daddy picked the hymns we sang at church, but he couldn’t carry a tune. It was my mother who provided the real inspiration for my own love of music.

Mama also grew up in a musical family, although she didn’t realize it at the time. Apparently Grandpa Wagner had learned to play the French horn at one time but gave it up before he got married. He didn’t give up the bones and the mandolin, however. He wasn’t a performer but often played them at home.

Most of the Wagner siblings learned to play an instrument, and they all enjoyed singing. Mama’s secondary instrument was the piano, but her primary one was her voice.

As an elementary school teacher, Mama taught music in her own classroom. Eventually she found herself learning to conduct and leading choirs. She was the choir director at most of Daddy’s churches although she never replaced a willing volunteer who was already there when they came.

When my brothers and I were children, Mama gave us two kinds of music lessons. I called one of them “alto lessons” because she had us read and sing the alto on hymns while she played the entire harmony. I enjoyed the alto lessons, which were really her way of teaching us to read music.

She also gave us piano lessons, and that was a mistake. Not the piano lessons themselves, but that she was the one who gave them. The church organist gave piano lessons, and I would have learned better from her.

Although Mama was a decent piano teacher, there were two problems with taking piano lessons from her. One was that she didn’t have much time to teach us during the school year. Most of our lessons took place during the summer, and in the meantime I forgot much of what I had learned.

The other problem is that I was taking lessons from my mother. If I had taken lessons from Mrs. Stevenson, I would probably have practiced more in an attempt to impress her. But Mama was Mama. She was going to love me regardless, and I felt no need to impress her.

One of my biggest regrets is that I didn’t spend more time learning to play the piano. I can pick out a melody and play simple pieces, but I wish I had learned to do more. Maybe I should try learning more now, but I don’t seem to have the time.

I did put a little more effort into learning violin (with a teacher who wasn’t Mama), although I didn’t practice that as much as I should have, either. Unfortunately, although I loved the instrument, it didn’t love me. Dexterity is important for a violinist, and my fingers just wouldn’t cooperate.

Mama continued with her music after my parents retired. She even picked up a new instrument by joining the handbell choir at their local retirement center. And she always sang in choirs even when she wasn’t directing them. That’s her on the far right in the picture at the top of this post, singing in the choir at the church my parents attended in Holland, Michigan after Daddy’s retirement.

And I followed in those footsteps, as I will discuss in next week’s blog post.

The Page Travel Bug

 

My father had the travel bug, and he passed it down to his children and grandchildren. Or to most of his grandchildren, anyway. My son, John, was a disappointment.

After John left home, he took very few trips, and all of them were within the U.S. So I was pleasantly surprised in 2023 when he decided to go to Greece with my brother Gordon and my niece and nephew.

But let me go back and explain where the bug came from.

It started with my father, Oliver Page. Before Daddy was married, he traveled to the Middle East and taught at a private school in Amman, Jordan. He returned on sabbatical when he was a family man, and we lived there when I was six and seven (with my birthday occurring in the middle of the eight-month trip). When we reached England, and on our way back home, we worked our way across Europe seeing the sites until we reached (and after we left) Amman. While living there, we took advantage of weekends and holidays to travel around the area by foot (hitchhiking) or bus.

We had been back in the states for three years when Daddy decided to take another sabbatical with his family, this time to Edinburgh, Scotland. We sightsaw through England on our way there and in Europe during our spring break.

Other years, we traveled around the continental United States or to Mexico or Canada. Daddy got a month of vacation each year, and he made the most of it.

Daddy and Mama continued traveling after my brothers and I left home, but I wasn’t usually with them.

Roland didn’t travel much while growing up, but I soon infected him with the travel bug, too. While Caroline and John were young, we took international vacations to Germany, Mexico, Great Britain (England and Scotland), Canada, and the Middle East (Jordan, Egypt, and Israel), as well as traveling around the continental U.S. The photo at the top of this page is from our 1998 trip to the Middle East with my mother, my brothers, and my niece and nephew. (Daddy was 88 and too infirm to go with us.) Roland isn’t in the photo because someone had to take it.

During our time as empty nesters, Roland and I have continued to travel extensively. At first we traveled mostly in the U.S. (often to states where Roland had never been, but also to Alaska and Hawaii where I hadn’t been either), but we have done 14 international trips since the children left home, with two more booked and others under consideration.

Caroline and Pete are also experienced international travelers, but, as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I despaired of John.

Then he went to Greece. Still, that could have been a one and done.

Fortunately, it wasn’t. John and Christina just returned from a delayed honeymoon trip to Italy. (Delayed only in the sense that they were married in September.) I don’t know if she urged him into it or if he was as interested in going as she was.

In any event, I hope that my entire family now has the travel bug.

How the Old Masters Saw Easter

 

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

The picture at the beginning of this post was painted by Carl Heinrich Bloch in 1881. It is a very typical Easter image, showing Jesus emerging from the tomb and being worshiped by angels. This is a logical depiction since Revelation makes it clear that angels worship the risen Christ.

There were many witnesses to Jesus’ resurrection after the fact, meaning that they saw the living Christ in the flesh. There is no record of human witnesses to the actual resurrection, however. The closest we come to that is in Matthew 28:1-6, but even there it appears that the soldiers guarding the tomb and women who came to give Him a proper burial saw an angel of the Lord rather than THE angel of the Lord (which is the term used to refer to Christ himself).

Here is the Matthew passage, quoted from the ESV.

Now after the Sabbath, toward the dawn of the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And behold, there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. And for fear of him the guards trembled and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. Come see the place where he lay.”

This painting (circa 1700) by Noël Coypel is probably meant to depict the Matthew account. As mentioned above, there is no evidence that human eyes actually witnessed Jesus rise from the dead, but I like the way the painting shows the power of Jesus’ resurrection.

I’ll end this series with “Three Marys at the Tomb,” painted by Peter von Cornelius sometime in the early 1800s.

Both Mark and Luke mention that three women came to the tomb, but only two of them were named Mary. Regardless of their names, however, women were the first to hear the good news, and they hurried off to tell the others.

I want to be that kind of witness.

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

__________

These works of art are all in the public domain because of their age.

 

How the Old Masters Saw Maundy Thursday and Good Friday

 

Da Vinci’s painting “The Last Supper” is well known. He painted it on the wall of a church in the 1490s, and it has deteriorated and been restored several times since. It’s possible that nobody has a full knowledge of the original details, especially around the edges. If you don’t know what I mean, compare the one above with this one.

Regardless of its accuracy, the painting shows Jesus celebrating the Passover with His disciples on the day we now call Maundy Thursday. If you want to be a fly on the wall and listen in to what Jesus said during the meal, read John Chapters 13–17. He clearly knew what was to come even if his disciples didn’t get it at the time.

Jesus’ heart was heavy, and after the meal He went to the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. Matthew 26:36-46, Mark 14:32-42, and Luke 22:39-46 all tell us that He asked His Father to take away the cup (the painful crucifixion) that God had planned for Him. Yet every time He prayed He ended with, “Yet not my will but thine be done.” In spite of His agony, He was willing to sacrifice Himself for us.

The next image is a 1465 painting by Giovanni Bellini titled “The Agony in the Garden.”

That agony didn’t last forever. The final piece of art showcased this week is by an apparently unknown painter from the Antwerp School in the early 17^th Century. I like this depiction of the crucifixion because the two thieves appear to be writhing in pain while Jesus is at peace. When He died, the battle was over and Satan had been defeated.

The evidence of that would come three days later, at Easter. That’s the subject of next week’s post to end this series.

__________

These works of art are all in the public domain because of their age.

How the Old Masters Saw Palm Sunday

 

With Holy Week coming up, I decided to do a series on how the Old Masters saw those events. I’m starting this week with Palm Sunday.

The image at the top of this post is how we usually picture what we refer to as the triumphal entry, with Jesus surrounded by people spreading cloaks and palm branches before Him. The 1860 woodcut for Des Bibel in Bildern (The Bible in Pictures) is by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld.

The next photo shows a 1305 fresco by Giotto and is a typical Medieval portrayal of those events. Notice that Jesus is richly dressed and looks much more like a nobleman than a humble rabbi.

This final image shows the Spanish influence. It is attributed to Master of San Baudelio de Berlanga, circa 1125.

No matter how Jesus is portrayed in visual art, the best pictures are in words and come from the Bible. Here is the account of his entry into Jerusalem taken from Mark 11:8-10 (ESV):

And many spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut from the fields. And those who went before and those who followed were shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David! Hosanna in the highest!”

Although He came as a king, He rode on a donkey because He came in peace. The battle for salvation was still to come. We’ll see images about that battle next week.

__________

These works of art are all in the public domain because of their age.

 

Being Too Quick to Judge

 

Some of my main characters spend a lot of time reading. Since I write historical novels for children, I believe that it’s important to have them reading books that were actually around then. I have a long list of children’s classics and always check the initial publication dates.

Unfortunately, I recently read a book that reminded me that not all authors do that. I didn’t consider it one of the most egregious instances that I have seen, but it still bothered me.

Then I read it again.

The book I was reading is A Girl’s Guide to Winning the War by Annie Lyons, which takes place during World War II. The story is written for adults and has an adult protagonist, but her young niece is a prominent character. At one point the main character is reading Little House on the Prairie to her niece while a friend listens. That part is fine since Little House on the Prairie was published in 1935 and may well have made its way across the ocean by the beginning of the war. But the book is new to the friend, and the protagonist asks, “Didn’t you read these books with your mother when you were little?” Since the friend would have been a teenager by the time Little House on the Prairie came out, I was disappointed that the author would think it had been around that long.

That was going to be the theme of this blog: emphasizing the importance of researching publication dates before mentioning a book in historical fiction. When I looked for the quote to include in this post, however, I discovered a very big mistake on my part. It wasn’t the protagonist who asked the question but her young niece, who obviously wouldn’t have had any clue that the series hadn’t been around that long.

So even though Annie Lyons isn’t likely to read this blog, I’m apologizing to her now.

More importantly, it goes to show how important it is to read or listen carefully before criticizing someone for what they say. Otherwise, it’s way too easy to get the meaning wrong. That’s how misunderstandings—and even wars—begin.

So don’t be too quick to judge.

Even the Kitchen Sink

 

Last week I mentioned that spelling was the only subject I ever got Ds in, “At least not until law school, and that’s another story.” Rather than leaving you hanging, this post tells that other story.

I attended law school at Chicago-Kent College of Law, which is a division of the Illinois Institute of Technology. Two of the reasons I decided to go there were 1) they had evening classes (and I needed to work during the day to afford it), and 2) they allowed students to start with the January semester. With a few exceptions, including the one I’m going to mention in this post, it was a great place to go and I got a good legal education there.

So when my first summer session rolled around, I had just one semester behind me. I wanted to take the only two classes that would fit into my schedule and didn’t have prerequisites I couldn’t meet. Actually, the Evidence professor tried to talk me out of taking his class because I didn’t have enough substantive background yet, but those classes weren’t actual prerequisites and I signed up anyway.

The other class was Criminal Procedure, which was supposed to be an easy A.

I should have known better. I had the same professor for Legal Ethics my first semester and ended up with a C. People who know me have a hard time believing I got a C in an ethics class, and I had a hard time believing it myself. Still, I was just finding my way in law school and didn’t ask the professor why he gave me that grade.

That was probably a mistake.

Law school classes weren’t like my undergraduate ones. Midterms were rare, as were quizzes. So in most cases I had no idea how I was doing until I took the final exam and got my semester grade. Still, I was fairly comfortable about how I was doing in Criminal Procedure.

When I received my final grades, I had one A and one D, and they weren't in the classes I expected.

This time I did make an appointment to talk to my Criminal Procedure professor. When I asked what I could have done differently, he literally told me that I should have given him “the kitchen sink.” And yes, he did use those three words. I don’t remember how I responded, but I’m sure I walked out of his office in shock.

In case any of you aren’t familiar with the phrase “everything but the kitchen sink,” it usually means someone has provided a lot more information (usually irrelevant) than necessary.

I believe in being efficient and providing only those arguments that a judge isn’t going to laugh at. So, although I probably didn’t say it at the time, I refuse to learn how to include the kitchen sink.

In the long run, that D in Criminal Procedure didn’t mean much. It wasn’t a failing grade, and a D was good enough to keep me from repeating the class. I did need a C average to graduate, but the D in Criminal Procedure was more than offset by the A in Evidence, and the rest of my law school grades were As and Bs with a sprinkling of Cs, so my GPA was never in danger.

It did teach me a valuable lesson, though. A good writer knows his or her audience, which I obviously didn’t. Still, it isn’t enough to satisfy the audience.

I also need to satisfy myself.

Vocabulary and Spelling

 

I just finished a book where a boy whips out his pocket dictionary every time he hears a word he doesn’t understand. I have a great vocabulary, so I don’t need a dictionary for that. And even if I have one, it doesn’t always help.

If a word is spelled phonetically, I can find it. But if it isn’t . . .

Spelling has always been my downfall, the only subject I ever got a D in. (At least not until law school, and that’s another story.) I can’t rely on artificial intelligence, either. The spell-check on Word usually works, but if my spelling is too far off, it doesn’t include the correct choice. Then I’m sunk.

That’s a problem with doing crosswords, too. If I know the answer but misspell it, it can throw everything off.

So here’s my advice to my younger readers: don't make my mistake.

Learn to spell.

Writing Parallel Series

 

I while ago I decided to write a series of middle-grade novels taking place during the California gold rush, and I have just started sending them to editors and agents. The series consists of a stand-alone story for each of the three most common routes to California: around Cape Horn, across the Isthmus of Panama, and over the plains. The first two books have female protagonists and the third has a male protagonist.

Over the Plains is the second book I have written with a male protagonist, and it is the first that didn’t also include a female protagonist. Obviously, I have never been a boy, and that makes me hesitant to write from a male point-of-view. Still, many women write male POVs successfully, just as many men write female POVs successfully. And the boys I used as beta readers for Over the Plains didn’t question the accuracy of my male character’s thoughts and actions.

As I was searching for agents, one website said the agent is particularly interested in books that would encourage boys to read. Statistics say boys do not read as much as girls do, and they will rarely read a book with a female in the leading role. So I assume the agent is interested in books with a boy as the main character. I will certainly send him Over the Plains.

But maybe it’s time to step out of my comfort zone and write more books for boys. In fact, I think I can do it by splitting my completed series in two—or, rather, by creating two parallel series, one for girls and one for boys. This requires an additional three books, but I think they would be both challenging and fun.

The middle book in the series is about the trip across the Isthmus of Panama, and writing a version for the boys’ series should be relatively simple. My twelve-year-old female protagonist has a fifteen-year-old brother who plays a big part in the story. I’m envisioning a parallel book told from his point-of-view.

The other books will require more effort. I already have the first two books for girls, but if I move Over the Plains to the boys’ series, I will need a new book for the girls’ series to cover the overland trip to the gold fields. Except for one adult, there are no significant female characters in Over the Plains, so I will have to create an entirely new story line. I can, however, use the same setting and place the new story in the same wagon train. Obviously, there are some events that affect the entire train, and I will use them in both books. It’s a large enough train that the significant characters in the two books won’t have to interact, however, so I shouldn’t have to make any edits to Over the Plains.

I have a similar problem with the first book in the series when trying to adapt it for boys. There are no boys in that book who would make a good protagonist for the trip around Cape Horn. Again, however, I can create a new story about a boy on board the same ship on the same voyage. If I put him in the crew, he won’t have to associate with the passengers. I will use some of the events that affect everyone on board, but I won’t have to change the book I have already completed.

Sometimes my head pops with ideas and I get excited about the challenge, and this is one of those times. But there’s a problem. Although I have ideas for all three books, I can only write one at a time. And I’m currently working on a different book, so I’ll have to finish the current draft of that one first.

Still, I can’t wait to get started.

__________

Beginning at the upper left, the images in the photo are: “Clipper ship Sweepstakes,” lithographed by Fannier Palmer and published by Nathaniel Currier in 1853; “Der Isthmus von Panama auf der Höhe des Chargres River” (“The Isthmus of Panama at the Height of the Chargres River”), 1850 painting by Charles Christian Nahl; and 19^th century illustration of a westward wagon train, artist unattributed.

Responses from Readers

 

My denomination publishes a quarterly devotional magazine called Portals of Prayer. In every issue, three individuals each write a month’s worth of daily devotions.

Mine appeared in February.

I received a number of comments on the devotions. Only one was negative, but that one and one of the positive ones were unexpected.

Portals of Prayer includes a brief biography of each writer that includes the individual’s church but no other contact information. Although it also didn’t include my website, that is easy enough to find with an internet search and I received several comments through its contact page. That’s how I received the sole negative comment.

I had done several devotions on God’s command to obey governing authorities. I followed them up with one on obeying God rather than the governing authority when the governing authority asks us to do something contrary to God’s Law (Acts 5:29), and I used Hitler as an example.

Here is a quote from the email I received in response to that devotion.

You had to bring up Hitler, what an easy way to be brave! Sorry Miss, but you are either a coward, and/or a lazy researcher or a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Hitler actually was a devout Catholic, and during his era, thousands of new churches were actually built, and none were taken down.

I haven’t researched whether new churches were built during Hitler’s era, and that statement may be true. Hitler may also have claimed to be a devout Catholic, but his actions prove otherwise.

The email went on to say that the real villainy (my word, not his) occurred in the Soviet Union, where, according to the writer, Jews were behind Bolshevism and created it specifically to murder as many Christians as possible. Finally, the writer denied the existence of the Holocaust and ended by saying, “As Christians, we are not allowed to lie about other people or countries, simply because everyone believes it to be factual.”

In many ways, that was an easy comment to respond to. Although I consider research to be one of my strengths and calling me a lazy researcher would normally have upset me, the entire email made it clear that the writer was misguided. Arguing would accomplish nothing since the unknown author of the email is as unlikely to change his or her mind as I am to change mine. So I simply said, “Thank you for sharing your opinion with me,” and left it at that.

One of the positive responses to the devotions was harder to handle.

Several people contacted me through my church, and one note complimenting the devotions included a check for $125.

It wouldn’t be quite true to say I didn’t do it for the money. I consider myself a professional writer who is worthy of my hire, and I gladly accepted the stipend that Portals of Prayer paid me for my work. Still, my primary goal is to write to the glory of God, not for worldly reward. While I appreciate all the positive comments, I don’t feel right accepting money from a reader. So I voided the check and returned it with some suggestions for where they could donate the money if they so chose.

Writers never know what type of responses they will get from readers. Many times readers’ opinions are unexpressed, and the writer doesn’t know what they are. I can live with that.

But it’s always nice to hear from readers.

___________

The picture at the beginning of the post was painted in 1896 by Arthur Netherwood and is titled “Portrait of an Old Woman Reading the Bible by Candlelight.” It is in the public domain because of its age.

Remembering the Vietnam War

 

I can’t cover a trip to Vietnam without mentioning the war.

Roland served in the Navy during the Vietnam War, but he never made it to Vietnam. His name was on the list, but then President Nixon announced his Vietnamization plan to increase the withdrawal of American troops. So this was Roland’s first trip to Vietnam as well as mine, and it started in Saigon.

Technically, I suppose, it started in Ho Chi Minh City, but many residents still call it Saigon.

Saigon was the location of the American headquarters during the war. There are few of those sites left there, but the photo at the top of this page is the CIA building. The modern building in the background is a more recent addition, but the roof of the CIA building was the location for a famous photograph taken while the Americans and their supporters were fleeing the city. That photo shows a helicopter evacuating Americans and Vietnamese residents who had worked for the Americans.

The main war-related location we visited in Saigon is Reunification Palace, which is not specifically tied to the Americans. It used to be the equivalent of the White House, with both the president’s living quarters and many rooms where affairs of state took place, and is now a museum. They call it Reunification Palace because it is where the then president of South Vietnam resigned and turned the country over to the communists, thereby reunifying the North and the South into one country. That’s the second photo.

By the way, our Vietnamese guide called Vietnam a communist country with a capitalist economy. It seems to be on good relations with the U.S. and welcomes American tourists. Roland likes to say that Ho Chi Minh would be rolling in his mausoleum if he saw the robust commercialism.

After leaving Saigon, we took a long bus ride to our boat. On the way we stopped at the Cu Chi Tunnels, which were part of the vast tunnel system used by the Viet Cong to hide from the Americans. Some of our group went down in one entrance and came up at another, but neither of us went into the tunnels—Roland because he is too big and me because I’m slightly claustrophobic. The next photo shows a guard at the park showing off a hidden entrance.

We ended our trip in Hanoi, where our hotel overlooked the lake (on the left in the photo) where John McCain landed after he evacuated from his airplane. He was captured and taken to what American prisoners-of-war sarcastically called “the Hanoi Hilton.”

Although we visited the Hanoi Hilton, which is a museum now, it had a much longer and earlier history as a prison where the French held and tortured Vietnamese rebels, and that is the period the museum concentrates on. In that sense, the visit there was something of a letdown. The next photos show one of the doors, which may be the only thing that is the same as in the Vietnam War period, and an undated arial photograph of the grounds.

Our tour director grew up near the Hanoi Hilton. When she was younger, she was told that Americans called it the Hanoi Hilton because they were treated as well as if they were at a real Hilton Hotel, and it was said without irony. When she would mention it while giving tours to Americans, the women would giggle behind their hands, and she didn’t understand why. Years later, when she visited the U.S. for the first time, she went to an exhibit on the Vietnam War at the Smithsonian and got an entirely different perspective. She did some further digging and now appears to believe something closer to the American view.

One of the major tragedies of the Vietnam War was the use and effects of Agent Orange. The Americans sprayed the chemical to kill the undergrowth that the Viet Cong hid in, but it had very serious health consequences for both Americans and Vietnamese who were exposed to it and genetic effects for their descendants. Our last stop in Hanoi was at Dai Viet Fine Arts, which is a government-sponsored company that employes people who are disable by the effects of Agent Orange. The people who work there make and sell a number of articles, including pictures embroidered with lotus silk, which uses threads from the stalks of lotus flowers. The last photo shows the picture we purchased for ourselves.

This is the final post about our trip to Southeast Asia. There is a lot more to say, but I think it’s time to get back to talking about reading and writing, which is supposed to be the primary focus of this blog. So look for a change of subject next week.