On Poe

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What would Edgar Allan Poe have thought about the observations this year of the 200th anniversary of his birth? I can’t help but think he would be stunned.

This is a man who was found delirious, wandering the streets of Baltimore in clothing that wasn’t his own. He called out repeatedly for “Reynolds” in the hospital, though no one knew to whom he was referring. He died in the hospital days later. It was a mysterious end for a man recognized for spawning detective stories.

He had an unusual and unhappy life. He married his thirteen year old cousin who died of tuberculosis only two years after they wed. He never made much money on his stories, or drank away much of the money he did make. He was the first well-known American author not to pursue a day-job, but to attempt to make a living from his writing alone. A letter Poe wrote to his publishers, apologizing for his drinking and asking for more money, was purchased by the University of Virginia for an exhibit marking his 200th birthday. In the letter, Poe asks his New York publishers, J. and Henry G. Langley:

“Will you be so kind enough to put the best possible interpretation upon my behaviour while in N-York? You must have conceived a queer idea of me — but the simple truth is that Wallace would insist upon the juleps, and I knew not what I was either doing or saying.”

Wallace was his friend and poet William Ross Wallace.

Despite his struggle with alcoholism and personal tragedies, Poe was extremely productive as a writer and poet. He’s not only credited with introducing the detective story genre with his detective, C. Auguste Dupin, in The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841); but also with increasing the popularity of the gothic and horror fiction genres.

Poe’s detective used logic and keen observation to solve the case. But he also had rudimentary forensic analysis in The Mystery of Marie Roget.

I wonder how Poe would have handled his success and recognition in the year 2009. Would it have inspired him to get some help? Or would he have followed the same path? Was his troubled life the source of all his inspiration and would success have given him writers block? He died at the age of 40….I can’t help but wonder what other literary gems he could have created if his life hadn’t been cut so short.

Summer Reading—What’s on Your List?

blog46 Most writers are avid readers, even when we can’t find enough time to do the reading we’d like to.  Since it’s a hot and summery Saturday (here in North Carolina, anyway), it seems like a great time to exchange book lists.  I, for one, can definitely use some new reading material.  Currently I’m enjoying Lisa Miscione’s Smoke. Right now it’s a missing person’s case, but I’ve got a feeling a body will be popping up on the scene soon.

Stephen King gave his summer reading recommendations recently to Entertainment Weekly.  There were a couple of surprises: King reads Jodi Picoult and Charles Dickens. Who’d have guessed? I like Picoult myself, but guess her new book must be more on the thriller end of things than her usual.  Dickens I’ve admired for years, but I don’t usually wade through his novels during my all-too-brief summers (there was a period of time—can we say Bleak House?—where Dickens was being paid by the word.  He must have been trying to send someone to college at the time.)

My list here will be pitifully short (this is why I need help pulling a longer list together.) Right now I’ve got Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (because I didn’t get around to reading it last year) and the follow up The Girl Who Played with Fire (Coming out July 28.)  I also want to read M.C. Beaton’s next in the Agatha Raisin series, A Spoonful of Poison. P.D. James has Original Sin coming out on July 14, so I want to catch that, of course. My beach read will probably be Dorothea Benton Franks’s Return to Sullivan’s Island.

Any good recommendations—for any genre?

Dreams

blog43 There are lots of great stories out there about artists, inventors, and entertainers who got their best ideas through dreams.  How can I get in on this process? 

Rolling Stone Magazine has an entire article about the impact of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” on rock and roll.  The famous riff for the song?  It came to Keith Richards in a dream one night in a motel room in Florida:

He woke up, grabbed a guitar nearby and taped the music racing through his head on a handy cassette machine. Richards played the run of notes once, then fell back to sleep. “On the tape,” he said later, “you can hear me drop the pick, and the rest of the tape is snoring.”

And then, of course, we have Coleridge’s Kubla Khan.  The full title is Kubla Khan or A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment. Coleridge stated that he’d written the poem while waking from an opium-enriched dream. A visitor came unexpectedly to his door, shattering his dream and the images he was hurrying to commit to paper.

Salvador Dali called his surrealistic masterpieces (above) ‘hand-painted dream photographs.’ They were inspired by his dreams and hallucinations.

Elias Howe invented a better sewing machine after a particularly bizarre dream involving cannibals waving spears with holes in them. Apparently the movement of the spears indicated to him a way to make his machine work.

Some of the people on this list may have had particularly vivid dreams induced by certain mind-bending substances.  But I wonder—are there any writers out there who get bits of ideas or dialogue or story ideas directly from their dreams?

Because, frankly, my dreams are remarkably unremarkable.  Most of them can be categorized this way: 1) I’m back in middle school/high school/college and can’t understand my schedule, forgot my locker combination, or am not fully dressed.  2) I’ve forgotten to feed a neighbor’s dog and cat while they’re out of town and the poor beasts are ravenous in the neighbor’s house.  And pooping everywhere.  And I can’t find my neighbor’s key.  3) I’m back at some dearly-departed relative’s house.  They’re alive.  I’m not a child, though.  And their house has REALLY changed—it’s sort of like my house as an adult, it’s sort of like their house…and I’m totally lost.

You get the picture.  Random insecurity dreams.

Are there others out there cursed by pedestrian dreams?  How do we get out of our dream rut?  :)  It would be nice to explore my subconscious a little….

Musing on Muses: the Fickle Nature of Inspiration

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I think back to why I became a writer to begin with. It all started with a germ of an idea…multiplied by a hundred. Two hundred! Notebooks full of ideas: good ideas, rotten ideas. They popped into my head at the most random and inconvenient of times. And I loved every minute of it.

Now I realize we all have ideas. It’s the implementing of these ideas that creates the problem. Yes, it’s a lovely idea. Can you write about it for 250 pages or more? Will it hold someone’s interest for that long? What exactly is the plot conflict for this idea? Is it fresh? Does it have a hook?

Looking at “The Dream of the Poet or, The Kiss of the Muse” by Paul Cezanne (above, obviously) makes me slightly ill. Did Cezanne feel this way? Gosh, he must have—look at his body of work. An angel, coming from the heavens to kiss your furrowed brow and deliver the goods.

Lucky guy.

Not that I’m bitter or anything. But my relationship with my Muse is..strained at best. In fact, we’ve not been on speaking terms for years now.

So what do we do with such uncooperative Muses? Didn’t they realize we had an appointment with them? That we’re here, laptops in place, large mugs of coffee on our end tables, and an eager ear for their words of inspiration?

We plow ahead. One word at a time. Yes, it’s a blank page. Maybe what we’re covering it with isn’t much better than a blank page. But it’s a point to edit from. You can’t make something better if there’s nothing there.

Things I do while my Muse is AWOL:

Work on a different section of the book than the one I’m currently stuck on.

Brainstorm: See how many ideas I can come up with—for the next two pages. Just the next two pages. Baby steps…

Research something pertaining to my book.

Edit a few pages. Sometimes reading back over something I’ve already written can get ideas flowing again.

Change the scenery: Run some errands. Find inspiration in the little things (jot little descriptions of the people I run across as I’m out, settings I see, the feel of the weather that day as I walk around.)

Hope my Muse is the forgiving type and doesn’t carry a grudge for too much longer…

Writing: the Fantasy and the Reality

The fantasy: I knock out a ton of writing at the beginning of the day.

The reality: I’m frequently distracted by email when I first wake up.  It seems vital to me that I respond immediately. This takes some time and then abruptly, it’s time to drive the school carpools.

The fantasy: A picturesque writing cottage  in a lovely village is my inspiring retreat as I pen timeless masterpieces that will be studied by collegians for generations.

The reality: I write on the go. I frequently write in the car, pediatricians’ or vets’ waiting rooms, the playground (while trying to ensure my daughter is not abducted by strangers) and carpool lines.  I’m a paperback mystery writer…fun stuff that’s a good escape. Not exactly The Divine Comedy, though.

The fantasy: After a restful night in the arms of Morpheus, I scribble quickly as my personal Muse prattles on and on.

The reality: I’m a raging insomniac. I rarely sleep more than 3 hours straight.  The Muse is never there; I have apparently deeply offended her, so I’m left to my own devices.

The fantasy: I write perfect prose while keeping an immaculate house, neatly attired children, and providing nutritious suppers.

The reality: I write decent first drafts. Draft ten, however, is much better. The house looks fine unless you look too closely (which I don’t advise. Please back away from the refrigerator, sir.)  The children do usually pass muster. Supper is hit or miss. Occasionally we’ll have a special occasion, which I call Breakfast for Supper –a charming name for Eggos, cereal, bananas, and pre-cooked bacon. (Oddly, this meal is a tremendous hit with my husband and children.)

The fantasy: A fan of my series approaches me with great excitement, burbling with admiration about my appearance on the Today show.

The reality: I’m recognized by someone who read a write-up in the local paper. Unfortunately, I’d just finished a grueling day of yard work in 95 degree Southern sun.  I hardly even recognized myself.

The fantasy: I write for myself at all times. Anything less would be selling out.

The reality: I write for my editors and my readers. Anything less and I would not be selling at all.

The fantasy: I am living my dream.

The reality: I am living my dream.  In the real world.

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