You Just Never Know

Endings can be hard - be it poetry or prose, if it began at its beginning, its ending is not always obvious; in fact, it often feels easier to seek a beginning to suit a good ending than vice versa.  The perfect ending can seem impossible to find, and yet sometimes it is the one that looks least suitable that can turn out to be the one you were seeking.

In 1978, a few creative types were sitting around, contemplating an offering made by one of their group to be used as the closing song for an otherwise almost complete movie.  He sang it - they didn't like it.  They adjourned for lunch, and came back for the afternoon's brainstorming session.  The disliked song was fiddled with, adjusted, and tried in different styles.  No one else could come up with anything that the group agreed upon as better, so they decided that "it would do"

The movie hit the screens in 1979 - in 1982 the crews of two British warships that had been sunk in the Falklands war were singing that song as they awaited rescue.  That song went on to be covered by other artists from almost all musical genres, it was adopted by Aston Villa football club as the team chant, was performed at the close of the 2012 Olympics, and has been one of the more popular pieces to be played at funerals in many parts of the world.

It is, of course, "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life"

Almost eliminated in the opening round of consideration, it was given a second look and went on to be considered the perfect ending to Monty Python's "Life of Brian" - even reaching number one on the charts in Ireland, despite the film having been banned there.

This little story doesn't tell me how to produce the perfect ending for a piece of work, or even how to formulate a pretty good one - but it tells me that if an ending has presented itself for consideration, it should not be tritely discarded or dismissed.  Pin it up there with the other working notes and come back to it later.  Turn it around, or inside out, or read it aloud in a few different voices - after all, changing the singing style of "Always Look..." from deadpan to comedic was all it took to secure its spot in history.

A Matter of Appearance

There has been some discussion in the media and online about the way some male writers depict female characters in their books, particularly those men who seem to focus - in a teenage boy sort of way - on the breasts and figure of the character, as well as using descriptions of figure, face, and clothing, to imply sexual availability or inclination.

This article in the Guardian is a case in point https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2018/apr/03/male-authors-write-female-characters-twitter

The Guardian article particularly highlights the way some male writers have their female characters dwelling on - for example - their own breasts or legs or hips, but in a way that is obviously from their own male perspective of what is attractive in a woman.  In essence, projecting their own feelings into the female character.

It made me wonder about the way I describe the physical attributes of characters, so I opened up the first chapter of the novel I am working on.  A quick read showed that I had put very little direct physical descriptions of characters into the work, and certainly have not indulged in that behaviour some call an "all points bulletin" - that top to toe, point by point itemisation of height and weight, skin and hair, that can so derail the flow of the story. 

This could, in some ways, be a good thing, as too often a writer can end up displaying more about his own prejudices than actually helping the reader understand the character and why the story is progressing as it is.  On the other hand, how little physical description can an author provide and still engage the imagination of the reader?

The question seems to be, what physical characteristics are important for the development of the plot/story etc and how might those aspects bring about reactions or behaviour from the other characters in the book or story?  I asked a writerly friend - one who is actually selling books - what she thought was the appropriate amount of description.

My friend offered the opinion that description is good as long as it adds to the story - but that there should be plenty of room for the reader to insert their own images of the characters, including imagining themselves into the position of the heroine (or hero)  - this relates to the romance novel that she is successfully selling at the moment - the hero gets a reasonably thorough description; after all, he has to be attractive, but even then she leaves leeway for the reader to apply their own preferred characteristics to the love object.

Yet some authors insist on dictating the physical attributes of the characters - often going into bullet point descriptions of the person, with extrapolation from certain of the attributes and how they are displayed or how they are thought of by the character, to indicate the character's feelings towards the hero or other people.

So, how much physical description of a character is needed to satisfy the reader?  For another opinion, I pulled out a few of the classic novels of various genres, and found quite a variety of approaches.  Some hardly say anything, while others offer half a page of physical detail for each character.

It is a vexed question, but an important one - for it is well established that we humans have a habit of looking at other humans, and quickly coming to conclusions about their character and honesty based on the first impressions garnered from that initial glance. 

We take in their height, gender, skin and hair colour, and hair-do, clothing (style and cleanliness), and footwear - and very quickly process that information through the filters of our past experience and prejudices (we all have plenty of both).  It is rarely done in a careful, conscious, item by item way - instead, it is a judgement based on a glance. 

At times, if the judgement is intense, we have a sudden sense that we have detected a good or bad "vibe" around the newcomer.  We can even take an instant dislike to that person, or fall head over heels in love (or lust - they are both four letter words that start with 'l' and can both get us in considerable trouble) - and it is not just authors dealing with this problem; vast reams of paper have been dedicated to the musings of scientists trying to understand this troubling aspect of human behaviour.

That suggests that when we write a phrase describing one character, we are doing it for two sets of people - our readers, and our fictional characters in the novel.  The reactions of the latter to the appearance of a new character can have a material effect on decisions and actions yet to be taken by the characters already on the page.  What one character says or thinks about some aspect of the appearance of another character can tell the reader so much about what has happened, and what might be going to happen as the story unfolds.

Le Carre tells gives the reader a strong description George Smiley while also, in a paragraph, letting us know what people around him think and feel about him.......

Short, fat, and of a quiet disposition, he appeared to spend a lot of money on really bad clothes, which hung about his squat frame like skin on a shrunken toad. Sawley, in fact, declared at the wedding that ‘Sercomb was mated to a bullfrog in a sou’wester’. And Smiley, unaware of this description, had waddled down the aisle in search of the kiss that would turn him into a Prince.

Lee Child lets us know why the other characters in his books might be intimidated by Jack Reacher....

“His lazy lopsided grin. His tousled hair. His arms, so long they gave him a greyhound’s grace even though he was built like the side of a house. His eyes, cold icy blue like the Arctic. His hands, giant battered mitts that bunched into fists the size of footballs.”

Likewise, Bernard Cornwell makes sure early on that the reader can see the image of a tall, strong, scarred and battered man with eyes that have seen and survived much violence, and will not flinch at more.

But then there are the often sardonic descriptions offered by the thoughts and words of Chandler's battered private detective, Phillip Marlowe - his opening, self-description tells us not only what he looks like, but how he feels about himself and the world around him.....

“It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark little clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.” 

I haven't answered my own question, have I?  The best an author can do is what feels right as the words fall to the page - and perhaps we should not worry too much, because, no doubt, an editor is waiting, red pen poised, to correct us if we get it wrong.

Underfoot

The tourists are milling about the Mountain lookouts, taking snapshots and selfies of the sun-drenched ranges, but there is a long and winding road that leads to an entirely different view of the Blue Mountains. 

It is a route that requires carefull negotiation - in its upper reaches the kangaroos can take unwary speedsters by surprise, while, closer to the destination, the tight corners and steep grades demand patience and caution.

Eventually, the road brings you to a grand demonstration of the impact that water can have upon a landscape.....

....as well as the benefits humans can extract from that water and its surroundings.

The history of this place is a long and complex one - stretching through geological eons, along the ancient story lines and culture of the Gundungurra and Wiradjuri people, into a 21st century whose speleologists are still finding deeper tunnels and watercourses, far from the light of day.

Jenolan is possibly the best known cave complex in Australia, though far from the only one.  The caves open to the public are only a fraction of those known to the explorers and scientists, but many of the others would require a very strong personality, and skinny hips and ribs, on the part of any would be tourist.

 The forces that have carved, sculpted, and constructed the strange beauty in these caves are a complex mix of organic and inorganic chemistry, along with occasional bouts of the brute force that flood water can apply.

When you have finished underground, the views to be seen on the way back to the carpark are also wonderful......

 .....just kidding - there is a bus that will take you to the carpark at the other end of those stairs.  I kept looking, by the way, but saw no sign of orcs or dwarves, though you might wonder what those noises were, when the guide turned out all the lights, and darkness absolute surrounded you.

Autumn lingers still - another beautiful day through which to wander by the shores of our beautiful lake.  Our sky, caught between two complex weather systems, is putting on a show....

and the lake is a mirror broken by the convoys of ducks that call it home......

The Council has almost completed its extension to the walking paths around the shores....

 and our wandering took us to the new viewing platform at the head of the western arm.

It is a comfortable place to sit and listen to the birds...

...and to soak up the calm beauty of the mountain bushlands....

The Early Bird

As the season cools towards winter, the flow of life in and out of my gardens is changing, too. The longer nights are generally quieter - lacking the shrilling of crickets and percussion ensemble of the various frogs along the creek and in the swamp.  Around midnight there is usually at least one burst of possum snarling, as territory is claimed and reclaimed, but, after the boundaries are sorted, silence returns.

Have they nothing to say, or are they anticipating the increasing hunger of roaming foxes? - always busier, it seems, in the colder weather.  Perhaps it is the foxes, too, that postpone the dawn chorus of small birds - finches, wrens, and silvereyes - until the first rays of sunshine reach in among the branches and make the world just that bit safer for the smallest denizens.

The first sign of bird life is generally the chorus of kookaburras, telling the rest of us that the eastern sky is changing from black to grey.  The magpies and currawongs are usually next, renewing their claim to lookout tree, nesting place, and grassy hunting grounds.  When they call, you know the sun is not far below the horizon.

Once the early, yellow light has banished the nocturnal predators - fox, cat and owl - to their diurnal shelters, the tiny birds give voice from within the tangle of twigs and thorns.  The satin birds begin to sortie out of the denser foilage, seeking berry and fruit, and the crimson rosellas appear to brighten the world.

This is a time when the shadows are long enough to give ample hiding places to the hunted, and the sky is bright enough to silhouette the early hawks and falcons.

In that still, cool, perfect early light, two crimson rosellas - brilliant red and blue - jinked and swerved through to trees to check out the feeder in the small oak tree.  Often loud and tuneful, they swooped in silence, and checked out their destination from the safety of the neighbouring liquidambar.  Their reflexive caution made me wonder if the cat from two doors up has again been conducting dawn patrols through the adjacent camellias.

Reconnaissance completed, they fluttered down into the feeder bowl and broke their fast, all the while conducting a softly muttered conversation.  The soft chirps and whistles didn't stop as I walked by on my way to the village - they know the humans who belong here, as do the magpies, and king parrots, and the cuckoo doves who spend part of each year here.  If they are gone when I return from the shops, the magpies will be waiting on the veranda rail for me, hoping for a treat, and the black ducks will be grazing across the lawn above the creek, where the fractal edge of tree-shadow gives them a sense of safety.  It would be a poor world without them.

As the day warms and the shadows tuck themselves in closer to the tree trunks, the birds seem to retreat as well, but the shadows will reach out again as the air cools, and the tide of life will flow again across the garden.

Small Wonders

Easter is past, and the calendar claims that Autumn is upon us.  While some of the trees are trying to agree.....

the vegetables aren't so sure.  The bees are still finding food from unexpected sources, as a late batch of corn blooms in our garden (we picked some today - sweet, and plenty more to come, which is unusual, as the frosts should have arrived by now).  The tomatoes and beans are still offering up food, while the pumpkins have ripened nicely - at the same time as the cabbage, cauliflower, brocolli, onion, and pea seedlings are all burgeoning.  A day ago the snow peas opened their first blossoms, so that it something to look forward to.

Other insects and small life are busy, too, and a porch light left on overnight attracted moths to the wall beneath it - to the delight of this tiny spider....

Yet, when I went fishing out along the Cox's River a couple of days ago, the algae that normally send the water green during the hot, slow days of Summer was flourishing.....

Flourishing to the extent that a blue-green algae warning was issued the next day for Lake Lyell, a few kilometres downstream from where this picture was taken. If you are wondering why there are no fish-pix, the big ones all got off after brief tussles - only the tiny ones were willing to pose for a photo.

Flat Spots

What do you do when a writing "Flat Spot" deepens into a trough of unproductive days, and then begins to stretch into an arid plain of empty pages?  Why does it happen in the first place?

There is plenty of advice about the importance and value of "turning up" and of keeping to a routine as ways to ensure writing success.  Daily life, though, can throw up legitimate obstacles to the writing life - first one, then another, so that flat spot happens, and pages remain blank.  A prior commitment here, or an illness there, and two or three non-writing days have stretched to a week.

There is a point during that week where guilt begins to nibble at the edge of the mind - promises made to one's self have been left unfulfilled - and even though each distracted day was so for a valid reason, that guilt goes from a mound that trips the writer up, to a mountain that looks too high to even attempt to climb.

Standing on the edge of that plain of empty pages, the mountain of guilt and self-accusations looming ahead, is a lonely place to be, it seems - but it is far from a unique position to be in.  There have been plenty of words written on that very topic, such as this blog post by Emily Temple, in which she examines the diary entries of famous writers who were published before their flat spots, and after, but had moments where all seemed lost.

What to do about it?  This article in The New Yorker, by Ferris Jabr, is a nice summary of the value of such a simple solution as going for a walk, while this blog post by Nicole L'autore explores other ways to regain your writing momentum.  Some of Nicole's suggestions do fit on the list of things I do to procrastinate, but others definitely seem worth a try.

In this case, it seems that writing about the reasons I have not been writing was enough to get the words flowing again - and that reminds me of the concept of morning words (another thing I have been less than scrupulous about, lately).  Julia Cameron, in The Artist's Way, seems to be the source for this idea, and she made the point that it really didn't matter what the words were, as long as they were allowed to flow from brain to pen to paper.  Those words might be, at their start, a litany of complaints or excuses, but once they are on the paper, there is room in the brain for the other words to come to the fore - and doesn't that feel better?