Category Archives: Writing

Blogs, Socials, Bookselling, Writing

The Rise of Christmas Books in Britain

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Giving books at Christmas has been a long tradition with readers. In the early 19th century, plenty of books sold in the weeks preceding Christmas, but none of them were published for the season. Often people bought attractively bound collections of essays, poems, or classic novels that they knew they would enjoy.

In one of his books on the industry, publisher Joseph Shaylor writes, “Between 1820 and 1830 there came into existence a series of Annuals which caused quite a revolution in the sale of books for Christmas.” British bookman Rudolf Ackermann came up with the idea, publishing Forget-Me-Not: A Christmas and New Years Present for 1823. They were published every year through 1848, having a circulation of 18,000 at the height of its popularity.

Cover of 1823 annual, titled "Forget Me Not"

Another publisher released Friendship’s Offering in 1824, which found its way to America some years later as knockoff copies. Apparently, many volumes were hacked this way in America, even lesser works rebound and distributed under new popular titles (which sounds like clickbait to me). Friendship’s Offering may have published some higher quality literature than most. For example, Thomas Babbington Macaulay’s poem “The Armada” was printed in the 1833 edition. It ran until 1844.

Engraver Charles Heath launched multiple annuals, “such as the Picturesque Annual, in a guinea volume which contained engravings from the best landscape painters of the day,” and The Book of Beauty, edited by Marguerite Gardiner, Countess of Blessington and Irish novelist in her own right. Her social influence drew attention from many literary stars and would-be stars, including Disreali.

“The rise of the Annuals appears to have diffused a fashion for artistic and elegant pursuits, and helped to evolve a taste for literature and the fine arts. They were the principal publications of the year, and much time and consideration were given to their production.”

Booksellers have tried to inspire an Easter season of book-giving to no avail.

All right. What else we got?

Literary Translation: Joel Miller talks to Russian translator Lisa C. Hayden about the art of moving a novel into another language.

When it comes to translation choices, there’s not always a “right” choice, just the choice that seems best. How does literary intuition play into your work?

I rely a lot on intuition. It particularly kicks in when I’m reading the manuscript out loud. I’m listening for lots of things but particularly want to feel that there’s an ease to the reading and a rhythm to the writing. I know when they feel right but rarely know how to explain why they feel right.

Secular Morals: Seth Mandel writes the former director of Human Rights Watch “is what you’d get if Soviet ‘whataboutism’ were a person, a golem manifested by the chantings of Oberlin freshmen. . . . HRW and Amnesty International both had no idea how to handle a post-9/11 world because terrorism didn’t really fit into their worldview.”

Writing: “True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.”

Books: “Books are men of higher stature, And the only men that peak aloud for future times to hear.” – Elizabeth B. Browning, “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship”

Religion, Writing

In which I try to think above my weight class

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Photo credit: Patrick Fore. Unsplash license.

Sometimes I have Big Thoughts, which seem to me important. It would appear self-evident, though, that if these ideas are any good, someone must have come up with them before me. And if nobody has, it’s probably because they’re not as good as I think they are.

But I forge ahead, in all the boldness of the simple-minded. I have a sort of an answer to the problem of Theodicy.

No, make that a proposal for an answer.

No, not even that. An approach to a proposal.

In any case, I’ve written about these matters here before, but I think it’s been a while, perhaps quite a long time.

The problem of Theodicy is familiar to many of you. It’s one of the really big questions – if God is good, why does he permit such horrendous evil to exist in His world? (Recent events in the Middle East have given us ample cause to contemplate this question, when we’re not weeping, tearing our hair, and stocking up on ammunition.)

My proposal for thought is that we ought to look at the universe as a Story.

Every writer knows that there’s no story without conflict. And conflict means pain. One of the hardest disciplines many writers must learn is how to torture their characters. Although I love reading exciting stories, I often fear I can’t bear the stress when a good author turns the dramatic tension (which means fear and pain) up to 10. When I’m writing, I’d much rather be nice to my characters (most of whom I quite like), but I know my stories would be degraded.

Does this help explain why there’s suffering in the universe? Is God telling a great story?

Now I can hear the objections – “That’s obscene! When we contemplate the evil suffered by innocents in places like Gaza, it’s simply an insult to suggest that God is using those people like toys in some cosmic story-telling game.”

To that I reply – very tentatively – suppose it’s not just a game. Suppose stories aren’t actually trivial?

Suppose stories are the most important things there are?

Suppose our universe is not just “a” story, but “THE” story – and that story is the glory of God, the music of the spheres, the liturgy of the Great Throne, the song of angels.

If that still seems trivial to you, I ask this question – “What can you suggest that’s more serious than a story – if you’re in it?”

And suppose – just suppose – you had an assurance from the Author that somehow – in some way you can’t comprehend – the ending would be happy?

Poetry, Writing

Seeds Among the Ruins and Silence

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The greatest displeasure of the largest number
Is the law of nature. – Pao Chao, “The Ruined City”

Paul J. Pastor writes about The Kalevala, an epic poem written from Karelian and Finnish folklore, focusing on “the great bard Väinämöinen” who chooses to live

on the island with no words
on the mainland with no trees.

After a long while, if I’m reading this correctly, Väinämöinen begins to sing the world into being.

Pastor applies this to our own small creative works. Silence, not just moments of quiet, but true silence that endures beyond our comfort can be “the great and difficult friend of the writer and the artist.”

We are not artistic dynamos. We cannot truly create anything of own mere will. We must rely on the Lord and his revelation, both general and specific. Noise, even a natural and healthy noise of life, can drain us—at least, it does drain me.

And yet what brings Väinämöinen, the bard of bards, into the fullness of his power is precisely that condition of emptiness that so disgusts or unsettles us. It is being in the boring-place, the empty-place, the still-place that something happens to him, something so vast that nature itself unlocks her most intimate secrets.

Photo by jean wimmerlin on Unsplash

The great bard began singing on a rock so bare we would have trouble finding a similar one today, but we may find a deafening silence among ruins, a place where

. . . grains of sand, like startled birds,
are looking for a safe place to settle.
Bushes and creepers, confused and tangled,
seem to know no boundaries.

These verses come from fifth century Chinese poet Pao Chao (or Bān Zhāo). In “The Ruined City,” he describes a vast plain with visible canals and roads cut into it, all leading to crumbled ends and weeds.

The young girls from east and south
Smooth as silk, fragrant as orchids
White as jade with their lips red,
Now lie beneath the dreary stones and barren earth.
The greatest displeasure of the largest number
Is the law of nature.

This too is silence and a little despair; we need more than human hope to endure it. Can we throw seeds into the wind that will sprout in what time the Lord will give them? Kyrie, eleison.

Bookselling, Uncategorized, Writing

Off into the Green

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Some friends of mine at a previous Midwest Viking Festival, in Moorhead, MN.

In case you’re keeping track, I passed the 60,000 word count on The Baldur Game this morning. Since I anticipate a final length in the neighborhood of 100,000 words, I feel as if I’m making progress. I’ve wrapped up Ailill’s and Erling’s adventures in Caithness, Scotland with Jarl Thorfinn the Mighty (a whole lot more happened there than I expected), and now I’ve got them in the Orkneys, preparing for the crossing to Norway.

If you’re in the Green Bay area, you’ll find me (God willing) at the Midwest Viking Festival on the campus of the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay Friday and Saturday. They have a Viking house there, which will anchor our encampment. I’ve been to this festival before, but only in its former venue in Moorhead, Minnesota – a somewhat shorter drive. I’m crossing my fingers that I’ll satisfy the authenticity standards.

I’ll have some books to sell, but get there early. Supplies are limited.

(Note, I know Green Bay is an odd place to hold a festival for Vikings. Another of God’s little jokes, I suppose.)

Publishing, Reading, Writing

‘The boring truth about the Library of Alexandria.’

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Today, I’m reading a book I’m enjoying very much. Actually I’m re-reading it – it’s an old favorite. I hope to review it tomorrow.

How’s the writing going? Not bad. Today I got back to laying down text, after several days doing research on Caithness and Orkney, where my characters are bound. I reached 50,000 words, which is half the length I’ve imagined for the book. So that’s on course.

Also, I finished revisions on a magazine article I was commissioned to do. This means, I’m reasonably sure, that I’ll have some money coming in at some point. Also a good thing.

Above, a nice YouTube video I found, on the Library of Alexandria. I remember a teacher in high school telling us about the great tragedy of its loss. According to this presentation, that’s all been overblown. Often by people who have have axes to grind (even some axes I grind myself now and then). But there’s less there than meets the eye, it would appear. No doubt much knowledge has been lost through the centuries, but the cataclysmic holocaust at Alexandria seems to be scholarly folklore.

It’s kind of comforting to know that scholars have their popular fallacies too.

Fiction, Non-fiction, Reviews, Writing

‘Orkneyinga Saga’

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This book review will, on closer examination, turn out to be a sort of bait-and-switch, a partial review embedded in an author’s journal post. I’m still plot-wrestling, and I continue in PAUSE mode, learning the geography and trying to figure out what happens next as I send Erling Skjalgsson home from England by way of the Orkneys (and possibly the Shetlands. Haven’t worked that out yet).

As I told you, I realized the other day that Erling’s journey home to Norway has to bring him into a confrontation with Jarl Thorfinn the Mighty of Orkney, who had a problematic relationship with King (Saint) Olaf Haraldsson, Erling’s enemy. Thorfinn had submitted to Olaf as his overlord, but he felt Olaf had broken their understanding by awarding part of the jarldom to his brother Brusi. He might very well be willing to listen to Erling’s suggestion that he transfer fealty to King Knut of Denmark/England.

However, I discovered a further complication. In reading the Penguin edition of Orkneyinga Saga, the saga of the earls (jarls) of Orkney, I was reminded that Thorfinn ruled not only the Orkneys and Shetland. He also ruled Caithness, the northeastern part of Scotland, an area heavily settled by Norwegians.

And Caithness brings us close to Moray, which was the home of Macbetha – whom I included, you’ll recall, under the name Macbetha, in my last Erling book, King of Rogaland. Macbetha, who wouldn’t have been king yet at this point, would almost certainly have been an enemy of Thorfinn’s. (Though I always think about Dorothy Dunnet’s novel, King Hereafter, which is based on the theory that Thorfinn and Macbeth were the same person. She notes that the annals telling about Macbeth never mention Thorfinnn, and Orkneyinga Saga never mentions Macbeth [well, it mentions an earlier King Macbeth, but he’s a different guy]. In the saga, Thorfinn does fight a mysterious Scottish king named Karl Hundarsson, whom some historians have identified as Macbeth.) Anyway, it would be impolite to my readers not to reunite them with Macbetha while we’re in the neighborhood.

So how will I work all this out? I’m thinking about it. I have some ideas.

In any case, I’ll review the portion of Orkneyinga Saga that I read. I confess I didn’t finish it (this time through), because it covers a lot of history much later than the period I’m dealing with. Some of it, I should note, is very intriguing, especially the conscientious objection of (Saint) Magnus Erlendsson during a raid on Wales, and his subsequent martyrdom.

But my concern was with the career of Jarl Thorfinn. Thorfinn is an intriguing character, bigger than life. Sometimes he’s sympathetic, sometimes emphatically not. His climactic conflict with his charismatic nephew, Rognvald Brusisson, involves some very nice plotting (indicating – probably – a fair amount of fictional embroidering) and dramatic irony. One also notes the appearance of the name “Tree-beard,” very likely where Tolkien found it. The saga also includes one of our sources for the disputed practice of the “Blood Eagle,” a cruel method of execution which showed up in the History Channel “Vikings” series. (I myself incline to the view that there never was such a practice, but that it came from the saga writers misunderstanding a poetic metaphor.)

Orkneyinga Saga is one of the most striking and vigorous of the sagas. It’s not up to Snorri Sturlusson’s literary standards, but it still packs a punch and lingers in the memory.

Writing

Author’s journal: Sailing to Orkney

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Coastline, Bis Geos, Orkney. Photo credit: Claire Pegrum. Creative Commons license, Wikimedia.

Today was one of those useful but frustrating days when I’m forced to learn stuff instead of write. I’ve come to another change of scene in The Baldur Game, my work in progress, and so I spent my writing time this morning watching YouTube videos. Which is easy work, but it leaves me with a guilty sense that I’m dogging it.

I posted about this on Facebook yesterday, but I’ll expand on it here. I’ve reached the stage in the story where Erling Skjalgsson has finished his time in England and is going home to Norway. But when shall he travel? That’s the problem.

Snorri says in Heimskringla that Erling returned to Norway in late summer after participating in King Canute the Great’s Baltic campaign. My problem is, why so late?

Historically, we have one fixed date in all this narrative that historians have been able to pinpoint for us. We know that Canute participated in the coronation of the Holy Roman Emperor Conrad II in Rome in March of 1027. So the whole business of the Baltic Campaign and the Battle of Holy River has to be fit in around that. I expect that this is one reason so many variant dates have been proposed for the campaign. Snorri seems to place it in 1026, which means Canute must have gone back to England, wintered there, and set out for Rome very early in the year.

But why would he do that? He’s just defeated Olaf of Norway and the King of Sweden. He’s forced Olaf to abandon his ships and return to southern Norway overland. One would think he’d want to deliver the coup de grace right away, while Olaf was on the run. Instead, he interrupts his war to run off to Rome.

However, I can see an argument for Snorri’s dating – indeed, I’ve adopted it for my story. Canute gets this invitation from the elite of Europe to come join them at the big party. It would not only allow him to be seen dining with the top Influencers, but it gave him a chance to get papal blessing for his Anglo-Danish empire. He must have been painfully aware that many European royalty viewed him as an ambitious freebooter, a barbarian who’d usurped a throne (like Conan). But this trip would show them. And if he got the pope’s blessing (which he did), it would permit him to return to his war refuting Olaf’s claims to be fighting on God’s side. (William the Conqueror would benefit from a similar endorsement later in the century.)

This is a very interesting development from a political perspective. Prof. Titlestad writes, in that classic (and well-translated) book, Viking Legacy, “The (probably informal) agreement between Canute and the pope in 1027 testifies to the fact that the age of free Viking warfare was over.” Canute understood that the old plunder economy could not persist. From now on Scandinavian kings must be part of the European Christian “club.” Private enterprise raiding had to go. The kings would be playing in the big leagues now.

But if Canute sailed for Rome in early 1027, why did Erling delay his return to Norway until late summer? One would think he’d want to go home and take back possession of his estates, fortifying his military positions and shoring up his alliances with Olaf’s enemies.

But as I thought about it, I realized that, even if Erling left in spring, he would probably go home by way of the Orkney and Shetland Islands (the usual route for Norwegians). And Shetland was ruled at that time by Jarl Thorfinn the Mighty, along with his half-brother Brusi. They had both acknowledged Olaf of Norway as their overlord, but there’s reason to think Thorfinn wasn’t entirely happy with the arrangement. I’ll have to delve into The Orkneyinga Saga to figure out how to mix Erling and his crew up in those matters, trying to get Thorfinn to turn on Olaf.

As a bonus, I had a flash of inspiration today about King Olaf’s character and destiny. This will – if I do it right – bundle the themes of the whole Erling series up in this climactic volume.

I only wrote a few words today, but it was a good writing day anyway.

Reading, Writing

Author’s notebook: The helpless hero

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Photo credit: Luis Villasmil. Unsplash license.

Yesterday I reviewed a mystery novel by Peter Rowlands. I praised the prose, but thought the plotting and characterization below par. Still, I bought the next book – which I’ll review, I imagine, tomorrow. Tonight I want to comment on something that struck me as I read that second book.

Author Rowlands, as I see it, is still learning the craft of storytelling – as am I, to be honest. One weakness in this book is his overuse of plain luck in order to get the hero out of trouble. On two occasions in this story (so far) his hero has been at the mercy of genuine murderers, but has been saved by the timely appearance of chance passersby.

This is one of the big problems with that species of hero I might call “the helpless hero.” In some ways it’s a great strategy to make your hero an ordinary guy (or gal) with no particular skills or experience with violence. It raises the dramatic tension nicely. The reader identifies with the character and thinks, “What would I do in a situation like that? Could I survive?” (Honest answer: probably not.)

But that’s also the problem. How does he survive? Your James Bonds and Orphan X’s possess training and well-honed instincts for self-defense and survival. But your helpless hero twists in the wind. Rowlands chose to solve that problem, in this book, by resorting to dumb luck twice. My own rule, in reading and writing, is, one dumb luck escape per customer, per story. Any more than that is pushing credibility. Real life offers numerous instances of repeated lucky breaks – and unlucky breaks. But fiction isn’t as strange as truth. You can’t push your reader’s credulity. He paid good money for this book (unless, like me, he takes advantage of free promotional offers).

One work-around that’s become popular – and I’ve commented on it more than once in reviews – is bringing in what I jokingly call “the psycho killer friend.” He doesn’t actually need to be a psycho killer, of course. Probably better if he’s not, come to think of it. But he needs to be physically strong and skilled in fighting. It helps if he’s ruthless too, and condescending about the hero’s moral scruples. At some point in the past, your hero will have pulled a thorn from his paw or something, earning his undying loyalty. This PKF can be on call for  those times when your hero knows he’s going somewhere dangerous. He might even be savvy enough to shadow your hero on his own initiative, when his experience tells him his friend is being foolhardy. A nice twist can be introduced if you remove the PKF’s protection as you’re building up to the final confrontation, forcing your hero to work without a net. (Best not to save your one budgeted lucky break for the climax, though. The effect of that is kind of anticlimactic.)

Another acceptable solution is to have the authorities (usually the police) secretly keeping tabs on your hero, ready to appear, like the US Cavalry, in the nick of time, to the hero’s (and hopefully the reader’s) surprise.

Any other suggestions?

Writing

Author’s journal: Holden on to hope

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The current Holden Lutheran Church building. Photo credit: St. Olaf College

I’m pretty sure a one-hour road trip to my home town didn’t used to exhaust me the way it does nowadays. This is partly because I’m ancient and venerable, of course – and I have particular reason to be aware of that just now. But I’m pretty sure it’s also because we didn’t have constant, disruptive highway repair going on in those days. I suppose one must bear in mind that the highways – like the glaciers and the pyramids – were much younger back then. But I also suspect that the Powers That Be just like messing with Gaia-killing auto drivers.

Which is a roundabout way of approaching my story. I drove down to Kenyon, my home town, today. It was the second time I’ve been there in a week, not a common occurrence. A group of my high school classmates and I gather somewhere for lunch every time there’s a fifth Wednesday in any month. Today was that day. We met at a new café in Kenyon, which is remarkable in itself. Kenyon has rarely been capable of supporting more than one restaurant, and sometimes it hasn’t been up to any at all. I wish the folks at Angie’s well. The food was pretty good.

There was really little reason for me to go down today, though, since I saw most of these people on Saturday. (Must be the gypsy in me.) We held a class reunion Saturday, which we do every five years. (And no, I won’t tell you which anniversary it was. No doubt it’s possible to deduce my age through a web search, but I’m not going to hand it to you on a plate.)

We met in a nice little park in Holden, a township north of town. Holden is pioneer country for Kenyon, one of the earliest Norwegian settlements in the area, going back to the 1850s. This was long before my own family moved up from Iowa to settle ignominiously southwest of town, with the newbies. Holden was the home and headquarters of Pastor Bernt Julius Muus, a prominent Norwegian-American pastor and church planter. Muus is best remembered as a main founder of St. Olaf College in Northfield. In his day, however, he was equally notorious for being sued by his wife for divorce – something that just didn’t happen among Lutheran clergy at the time. It became quite a scandal – the poet Bjørnstjerne Bjornsen, on tour in the U.S., interviewed Mrs. Oline Muus and found – to his own surprise, since he hated the Norwegian clergy – that he sympathized with her husband. Prof. Georg Sverdrup of Augsburg College (the subject of a journal I edit), took the wife’s side, seeing Pastor Muus’ behavior as symptomatic of the dictatorial tendencies of too many pastors in church bodies he disagreed with. The radical journalist Marcus Thrane wrote a satirical play about the affair, which was produced in Chicago.

In spite of the fact that I was standing on what had once been enemy territory, from a Georg Sverdrup point of view, I had a good time in Holden Community Park, next door to the church, where they’ve restored an old railroad depot as a shelter.

I’m not sure whether attending reunions is good or bad for the human psyche. It’s a little melancholy to see how much one’s friends have aged (though a moronic but benign natural response assures one that oneself looks better than everybody else). But it’s morally good, I’m convinced, to display oneself before the others, giving them the same reassurance. Also, of course, to renew acquaintances and see what everybody’s been up to. And to learn everybody’s name over again, because I DON’T RECOGNIZE ANY OF THESE RELICS!

I can say for sure that the experience knocked me for a loop psychologically. I’ve been weird for days now, and I fell off my diet. Various explanations for this reaction occur to me, but I’m not sure of any of them.

Nonetheless, I carry on relentlessly with my novel writing. I’ve wrapped up the Baltic Campaign of King Knut’s war against St. Olaf (the man, not the school). Now I must build up, with tragic inevitability to… well, you’ll know when you read the book. I’ve been experimenting with some limited multiple viewpoint narrative in this work, and that’s where I’ll be going now. I’ll need to pause at least one day in laying down words, to organize my research.

Writing

Author’s journal: The Battle of Holy River

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Statue of St. Olaf on Nidaros Cathedral, Trondheim.

Tonight you’ll get a bit of authorial journaling, since nothing better occurred to me. The other day I topped 40,000 words on my work in progress, The Baldur Game. I’m adapting saga material here (whether historically factual or not), and I don’t think I can do much harm describing some of the challenges involved.

The Battle of Helgeå (Holy River) happened some time in the period from 1025-1027 AD. Snorri Sturlusson, in Heimskringla (the sagas of the Norwegian kings) seems to place it in 1026. I actually spent some time analyzing the chronology and decided to use the same year – mostly because it fitted my plot. But I think it’s a good guess. We know King Knut the Great was in Rome for Conrad II’s coronation as Holy Roman emperor the following year.

The battle itself seems to have actually happened (contemporary chroniclers mention it), but the details are sparse and debatable. Snorri tells an elaborate tale about a sophisticated stratagem Olaf used to trick Knut (and Erling too, of course, since he was in Knut’s fleet), but the actual practical effects seem minimal, even in Snorri’s account. It’s treated as a great victory for Olaf, but in fact it only bought him a chance to escape – ultimately without his ships, which he left in the Baltic (Denmark, as I keep reminding people, controlled the Baltic outlets, the source of its power), going back to Norway overland and wearing his shoes out.

I’m not going to detail Olaf’s clever battle stratagem here. Wouldn’t want to spoil it for you; you can just wait for the novel. (Or read Heimskringla.) It doesn’t really work with the physical features of the topography at the mouth of the real Helgeå, which is one reason scholars have proposed alternate locations.

I’ve decided to stay with the traditional battle site, in eastern Skåne (part of Sweden today but Danish at the time). I’ll have to contrive some kind of fantasy device to epic-afy the whole business, but I intended to do that anyway. So far this first draft is a little light on the fantasy element, and my readers expect some mermaids and monsters. (I have to keep reminding myself that this is not a problem. I always tell aspiring writers that they need to remember that a first draft is just raw material. Doesn’t have to be perfect. Doesn’t even have to be good. It’s what you start with. Somebody (I don’t recall who) said, “Stories aren’t written – they’re re-written.” The revision process is as important as the first draft – maybe more important. It depends, I suppose, on what kind of a writer you are.)

I’m still less than half-way through writing this draft, but I’m OK with that. This is meant to be my big book. My epic. My War and Peace, or Atlas Shrugged, or something. I’ve begun work and I’m making steady progress. I possess few virtues, but finishing projects is something I do seem to be able to do.