I don’t follow the news obsessively, but my impression is that, in terms of Hurricane Milton, things could have been a lot worse. It seems as if the storm hit with less force than expected. No doubt there has been great loss and suffering, but apparently it might have been worse.
Almost as if our prayers had efficacy.
So I’ll come out and say it, and let the skeptics laugh at me (since they will anyway) – thanks and praise be to God.
I can never forget my Florida years, when I lived in a mobile home and ruminated much on hurricanes in my lonely bed. One year a bad one (I think it was called Aaron. Or Erin) hit while I was on vacation in Minnesota. I came home to find my tin house almost unscathed – but the screen porch had been excised as neatly as if by a surgeon’s knife. The only damage to the main structure was a slit in a window screen.
That looked like divine timing in my case. I had recently lost my job, and I took the insurance money for the porch and lived on it, until I got work back home in the north. I sold the house without a porch.
I am currently in the toils of shaping The Elder King up for its paperback regeneration. I’m finding more than one spot where I’d like to do some re-writing, but I am practicing restraint. I don’t want the e-book and the dead tree version to be too different from one another. I only change obvious – and small – errors. Mostly.
But I just discovered that a certain character, when I introduced him in this book, looked differently from the way I describe him in The Baldur Game. Which means I’ll have to dip into TBG and make some changes tomorrow. I guess it’s another divine providence that publication has been delayed.
Though I have no doubt there are myriad inconsistencies I’ve missed completely, and with which I’ll just have to live.
I squandered more than an hour today, I think, fixing my laptop keyboard. And by “fixing” I mean af-fixing. Putting snazzy little high contrast stickers on the keys. Why did I feel I must do this thing?
I bought a laptop some years ago, and I liked it well enough except for the keys. The letters were inscribed in them so lightly, and in such a thin typeface, that they actually vanished in low light. So I sent away for stickers with big bright letters on a black background.
Then, one day I broke that laptop’s screen. I went in and bought a replacement, which turned out to be the exact same model (because I’m cheap and so was it). Then, also because I’m cheap, I pried the stickers off the old keys and stuck them onto the new ones.
But this apparently lowered the viscosity value of the adhesive, and the amount of typing I’m doing on this translation job seems to put too much pressure on the stickers. Some of them started sliding loose, and I knew this could not go on. So I splurged on a new set of stickers. Today I squandered potentially profitable time making the replacements. You wouldn’t think it would take long, but it does.
And that raises (not begs, I must insist) the question, why didn’t novel writing put the same wear and tear on the stickers? I do not know. Perhaps I’m not as intense when I’m writing a novel.
Formatting Hailstone Mountain for paperback has been a slightly bizarre experience. It meant reading it through, for the first time in more than a decade. I was prepared to find passages that I now felt could have been done better. Those I left mostly alone. I only fixed small and serious (in my opinion) errors. Like an odd letter “g” that sat wedged into in one sentence for no reason at all, apparently the result of a finger twitch on my last revision. The most radical change I made was to add three words to a setting description, because I thought the passage not as clear as it should have been, and possibly confusing to the reader.
This means that there will be slight differences between the e-book and the printed version. I don’t like to think about that situation, but I’m not OCD enough to go in and change the e-book at this point. And I’m comforted to remember that there were inconsistencies in various editions of The Lord of the Rings for quite a long time – and I, at least, never noticed.
But what’s really strange is to find oneself – to one’s astonishment and shock – moved by a few passages. It feels narcissistic to admire my own writing. But sometimes, I must admit, I do make the old jalopy run smooth. I once read somewhere that it’s impossible to tickle yourself. Bringing tears to your own eyes seems as unlikely. But it can happen.
J. R. R. Tolkien in the 1920s. Photo public domain.
I’m still working my way through The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien. It’s quite a long book (though not nearly as long as the 3 volumes of C. S. Lewis’ letters. But this collection makes no claim to being complete).
In any case, the business takes time. So I hope you’ll forgive my giving the book my “reading report” treatment. I suspect there’s enough interest in Tolkien’s work among our readers to warrant multiple posts.
What may strain your tolerance more is my selection of passages from the letters that I relate to my own writing. I’m keenly aware that, even standing on the shoulders of authors like Tolkien and Lewis, I’m shorter than they are. But as I obsess my way through the final stages of producing The Baldur Game, I snatch at any straw of reassurance I can find – or imagine I find.
Anyway, here’s a nice one, from a September 30, 1955 letter to a reader (friend?) named Hugh Brogan. Brogan had written with a criticism of the archaic prose style Tolkien used in The Two Towers. The professor never actually sent this letter, but dispatched a note instead, saying “it would be too long to debate.” But he kept the letter in his files.
He agrees with Brogan’s rejection of what they called “tushery” – the use of archaic words in literature to give an impression of antiquity – words like “tush,” “forsooth,” and “eftsoons.” Victorian writers liked to toss such morsels into their dialogue, but they’re now considered an affectation.
However, Tolkien insists that he does not employ tushery:
But a real archaic English is far more terse than modern; also many of the things said could not be said in our slack and often frivolous idiom.
I jumped at this, because it relates to my own style (in my Viking books). I actually avoid archaic words, unless I can find no modern equivalent. (I’d love to use the word “leif” as an adjective, meaning “to wish to”, for instance. But I don’t think I ever have, because nobody knows the word anymore.)
I’ve actually chosen to simplify my word choices to achieve an antique effect in these books. The general modern writer’s rule, “Don’t use a Latin word when an Anglo-Saxon word will do,” is taken to an extreme. Rather than use a word derived from Latin or French, I’ll sometimes even invent a compound word (in the German fashion) made out of two simple English ones.
In addition, I make use of my knowledge of Norwegian. Norwegian sentences are often constructed differently from the English. I discovered that when I re-cast a sentence in Norwegian word order, I get an effect that “feels” like Old Norse.
I like to think it works. The most satisfying praise I ever got for my writing was back in the 1990s, when a reader told me he looked up from Erling’s Word and was surprised to find himself in the 20th Century.
I was reading this particular book, one of those free ones I pick up in promotions. The book had numerous flaws (such as you routinely find in self-published works), but it also showed signs of promise. Not enough research had been done on the historical period in which it was set, but the author seemed to do a good job establishing atmosphere. And I was interested in what would happen to the characters.
But I could not finish the book. I tried. I held out for about a third of its length, and then I had to give it up.
The main problem was punctuation. The author got punctuation wrong in various ways, but particularly in the area of quotation marks. Let me remind you of the rules:
“The rules for quotation marks in dialogue,” said the lecturer, “are as follows. First of all, you start all direct quotations with the aforementioned marks. If the speech involves more than one paragraph, the first paragraph will end with a simple period. The lack of ‘close quotes’ here signals to the reader that more of the same speech is coming up.
“Then you start the next paragraph, once again, with opening quotation marks,” he went on. “And when the speech is done, you finish with ‘close quotes’ to signal that fact.”
The author of this book did not understand these rules. In fact, he got them precisely backwards. It was like driving in a town where some trickster has turned all the street signs 90 degrees. In every patch of dialogue, I had to stop and figure out who was talking now. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to give up reading, even though the story interested me. The author was trying to make me do his work for him.
I don’t entirely blame him. No doubt he’s young and publicly educated, which means he’s been taught little about English. I salute the perseverance with which he must have struggled to do a job (writing a book) for which school had not prepared him in any way.
But it isn’t fair to the reader.
Punctuation has a bad reputation nowadays. It takes work to learn the rules. And rules are unpopular in their own right.
But like Chesterton’s Fence, rules exist for a reason. This author’s inability to deploy quotation marks in a useful way lost him, in my case, both a reader and a review.
This brings semicolons to mind. Semicolons aren’t as vital to comprehension as quotation marks, but they have their proper uses. They too are unpopular today. Many writers have sworn off them. They say that semicolons don’t do anything you can’t do with a period.
But that’s not true. As a reader with a history of reading aloud, radio announcing, and acting, I can tell you that a semicolon serves a subtle but useful purpose. A semicolon indicates a brief pause – perhaps a slight intake of breath — before the speaker goes on to a further – but related – thought.
A period indicates a full stop (indeed, they call them full stops in England). The speaker’s voice tone drops in a way that sounds final. A full breath may be taken.
For a writer, such distinctions can be very useful. I treasure my semicolons; you’ll have to pry them from my cold, dead hands.
Okay, I’ve capped my superhuman achievement of watching the Vikings series all the way through, by watching all 5 seasons – plus the final 2-hour movie – of the Netflix series, The Last Kingdom.
As I opined in a previous post, The Last Kingdom benefits from a previous viewing of Vikings, because it looks better by that comparison. But, as is the way of this world, things deteriorated as they went on.
The first two seasons followed Bernard Cornwell’s original novels fairly well – or so I’m told. (I haven’t read the books myself.)
Starting with Season 3, one seems to discern the influence of the Vikings series. One imagines studio executives gathering the writers in a shadowy dungeon, threatening them with racks, iron maidens, and thumbscrews, and telling them, “Make it more like Vikings. Which means more like Game of Thrones. Give us more treachery. More betrayal. The shortest distance between any two points ought to be through a knife wound in the back.”
Thus (aside from the obvious – such as the hero Uhtred’s adoption of Ragnar Lothbrok’s ahistorical rooster’s comb haircut), we see characters changing their personalities abruptly, for no particular reason. They make unreasonable demands, tell lies for the fun of it, and choose suicidal policies guaranteed to make enemies out of friends. The point is not realism, but the maximum possible treachery. I said that it’s Uhtred’s idiotic life choices that propel the plot in the early seasons. Later on, Uhtred becomes the voice of reason, restraining a succession of kings from one disastrous, counterintuitive caprice after another.
I was particularly disappointed, in the later seasons and the final movie, of the treatment of King Athelstan, one of my personal favorites. I’m fond of Athelstan because he raised Norway’s King Haakon the Good at his court, and made him a Christian.
[Spoiler alert] In the final movie, Seven Kings Must Die, Athelstan, who’s been a decent fellow up to now, suddenly murders his brother treacherously (something that absolutely did not happen in real life), and is also portrayed as a homosexual.
Yeah, I should have seen that coming. Athelstan never married or fathered a child, so obviously he must have been homosexual. As you can probably understand, I take that canard personally.
Interestingly, Paul Anderson, in his novel, Mother of Kings, makes Athelstan’s foster son, Haakon, a homosexual.
Fictioneers have treated this admirable pair very shabbily.
And it occurred to me then that somebody ought to write a good novel about Haakon’s life, emphasizing his education (there’s a good chance he might even have been literate) at Athelstan’s court.
Eric Schumacher has written a series of books on Haakon, but I read the first one and didn’t like his treatment.
And then I thought of a Bridge Character for a Haakon story. Which means I’ll have to write the book now.
I’ve mentioned more than once that I attribute the success of my Erling books (success as literary works, not financial success, obviously) to the insertion of Father Ailill as a bridge character. A bridge character is a character with a relatable enough personality that he can explain a very alien, antique culture to modern readers. (Hobbits are the classic bridge characters in Tolkien, which is why The Lord of the Rings is so much more accessible than the Silmarillion.)
This bridge character came to me almost in a moment. He won’t be anything like Father Ailill. In fact, he’ll be a Viking himself.
How can a Viking be a bridge character to the Viking Age?
This will not be your ordinary Viking.
Watch this space for the next couple years, for more information.
Just found this fascinating excerpt from an old TV interview with J. R. R. Tolkien. It’s easy to understand how people complained that he often spoke rapidly and was hard to understand — the subtitles are very welcome. He always attributed the slurred speech to an old tongue injury.
The interviewer seems a tad clueless, not only about Tolkien’s mythopoeic philosophy (which is understandable) but about the basic Christian worldview.
I’m worthless to you tonight. No book to review, and no thought in my head worth sharing.
You’ll have to settle for some guy named Klavan, who’s supposed to be a novelist. I know it’s a disappointment when you came for Lars Walker, but life is hard and this will make you stronger.
I’m reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, amused at the antics of boys without electronics. I was never a boy like Tom. My most boyish habit at an elementary school age was riding my bike around our neighborhood or around my house. My neighborhood was essentially a rectangle with elevation at the two top corners and depression at the corner close to my house. The fourth corner was a curve on the slope up to the highest point. That meant I could bike up to the end of my street and ride back at breakneck speed. I don’t remember how often I applied brakes, if at all. It was quiet street. The main traffic would have been people returning from work, and I wasn’t out at that time.
In chapter 14, Tom, Joe, and Huck have run away from their village to live as pirates on an island in the Mississippi River. Free from civilization, they swam every hour, marveled at birds and bugs, cooked the food they stole as preparation for life on the lam. This is a contrast from how the normally spent their free time, which was bowling into each other, reenacting scenes from Robin Hood, and conducting inquests into the death of stray cats. You see? Completely different.
Tom’s life is a challenge to modern life, or maybe I mean it’s a challenge to me. I’m having a harder time reading lately and I’m avoiding writing too. I’ve been saying I need to take some time off, and I’ve gotten that this week, but I need more. Maybe not time off, but something — time away, a longer break of routine maybe.
What else do we have today?
The Dystopia of Leibowitz: Bethel McGrew writes about a sci-fi classic that is frequently recommended, A Canticle for Leibowitz. “The book doesn’t lend itself to easy description for the first-time reader. Whenever I try, I just keep saying that it’s very weird, and very Catholic. The cadence of the book is suffused with the cadences of the liturgy, the give-and-take of Versicle and Rejoinder. The corridors echo and re-echo with the sounds of masses sung and Latin spoken, no translation provided. A young Protestant friend told me it was enough to make him almost cross the Tiber.”
On Writing: Samuel James lays down a few real world principles. “By far, the safer road to becoming a good writer—and experiencing some measure of success—is to cultivate a compulsive need to write. Why? Because a compulsive need is what drives most people engaged in any activity toward greatness.”
John Updike: Patrick Kurp considers what endures of the work of this Pennsylvania native. “As a boy I wanted to be a cartoonist. Light verse (and the verse that came my way was generally light) seemed a kind of cartooning in words, and through light verse I first found my way into print.”
Photo: John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.
I am proud (in a suitably humble way) to announce that my first article has appeared in Religion & Liberty Magazine, published by the Acton Institute.
Its topic, a sure crowd-pleaser, is the story of Professor Georg Sverdrup, Augsburg Seminary, and the Lutheran Free Church. Readers of this blog have enjoyed my accounts of the antics of the Free Lutherans for many years (as I’m editor of the Sverdrup Journal), but now the whole wide world can marvel at the story. The passion. The pathos. The pietism.
Getting back to the real world, I’m well aware that the saga of the Free Lutherans is pretty tall grass stuff, even for people generally interested in church history. And we Norwegian Americans do love our schisms, which complicates matters. Hot dishes and schisms, that’s how you can tell Norwegian-American Lutherans.
The obscurity of my topic was brought home to me in a surprising way when I received my copy of the magazine, opened it, and found that it had been illustrated with an image, not of the Georg Sverdrup I wrote about, but of his namesake great-uncle. I can sympathize with the artist – I wrote an article about the Reformation kings of Denmark for the Sverdrup Society newsletter a while back and got my Fredericks and Christians completely mixed up. Had to print a correction in the next issue.
The R&I editor, when I pointed the lapse out to him, was very apologetic, and the artist quickly produced a corrected version, which will be used when the article goes online next month. And I appreciate that.
But these are details. The important thing is that the article serves its higher purpose – the great cause for which I labor with unwearying toil.
The cause of me getting paid.
And, of course, contributing to public knowledge of the history of the Christian faith. That too.
How desperate am I for work, you ask? How low would I stoop for money?
Would I sell a kidney? Flog condo time shares in Florida? Peddle my body on street corners?
Ha! Kids stuff.
I’ve been reduced to watching the History Channel Vikings series.
Yes, in spite of all my railings and denunciations against the thing, I’m watching the first season through now. I think I’ll need to watch more seasons, and I think the most economical way to do that will be to revive the Netflix subscription I dropped. As a business expense, though I don’t think I can deduct it.
Here’s how coming to this pass, uh… came to pass:
I have a friend who works with a web magazine that actually pays non-trivial money. I suggested to him an article I might write for it, one having to do with Vikings.
He countered that he’d like to see my topic related to the Vikings series.
I seem to recall I dickered my fee up a little at that point. Then I agreed to take the thing on. So I now have to watch enough of the series to enable me to speak with some authority.
I mentioned my plight on Facebook. Some friends suggested I might find I enjoy it.
This has not come to pass, so far.
What do I dislike about the Vikings series?
First of all – and I’ve written about this before – they get Norse society completely wrong. The Vikings in this production live in an autocracy, where the chieftain (the “earl”) calls the shots. He claims all the booty from raids. He kills people without consequence.
Sigh. Read Viking Legacy, for pete’s sake. The Norse had a grassroots democracy. Leaders were obligated to submit to election, and could be booted out if they got too big for said boots.
Armor and costumes – perhaps we reenactors overdid it, making “Vikings did not wear horns on their helmets!” our battle cry for so many years. The props people at the studio answered, “Got it! The Vikings didn’t wear any armor at all!” And that idea came to rule all their decisions, stuck fast in their consciousness like an axe in an unhelmeted skull.
There are plenty of fights here, and as far as I can see they’re entirely chaotic. Aside from the lack of armor, neither logistics, troop numbers, nor tactics matter at all. Victory is bestowed by the favor of the scriptwriting gods. Ragnar Lothbrok and his men (by the time of episode six, which is as far as I’ve gotten now) seem to be about to conquer the English kingdom of Northumbria with three ships’ crews).
I could go on and on. I’ll just mention one more thing. Clunkiness.
I’ve often said that one thing I’ve tried to avoid in my novels – and I hope I’ve avoided somewhat it through using Father Ailill as a bridge character – is clunkiness. Old time heroes, clunking around in funny costumes and heavy boots, ranting about honor and the old gods, in awkward sentence constructions. Making little psychological sense to modern readers/viewers.
I have an idea (bear in mind that I’m often mistaken) that Vikings will not age well. It seems clunky to me. When the haircuts stop looking cool, our grandchildren will laugh at it.
But I carry on with my “research.” If I’m going to sell my soul, I mean to give value for money.
