Writing and Pondering

Writing and Uncertainty

Every once in a while, I go back through all my books on writing and becoming a great writer. When I first started writing in college, I thought it would be the coolest thing to have my books make it to the classroom as part of some professor’s lecture. Something like: Trends in 21^st Century Writing. But after having written ten books or so, I’ve realized that I actually don’t want to be a “literary” author and it would probably be better if no professor ever knew I existed. I just want to give people a bit of enjoyment, a laugh, a shiver, or a warm, cuddly feeling at the end of the book. I’m just not cut out to be the next critically acclaimed author. For one thing, I don’t live in New York, or Paris, for that matter, so it would be highly inconvenient to attend all those functions that critically acclaimed authors are supposed to attend. Not to mention the fact that I don’t think I’d fit in, at all. I’d wind up checking my Droid for unusual bird sighting and leaving early to see the Peregrine falcon someone spotted just a few miles south of town. So I'd probably go to the function in boots, snake-proof chaps, bug spray and a sun hat, because I'd want to be prepared for that early exit.

Besides you see, I know of very few literary books that leave you with any feeling other than a strong desire to slit your wrists and end it all now. Why wait? Life’s a misery, people are mean or cruel or both, and really, why bother? Most people already know that by the time they’re 21 so they really don’t need a book to point out how miserable life can be. Which is mainly why I don’t read a lot of literature and instead read genre fiction like mysteries, the old science fiction from the 50’s, and a few romances. And Chaucer. I do like the Wife of Bath’s story. I’m don’t want to give you the impression I haven’t read vast quantities of literature. I’ve even found a few gems, like Jane Austen.

I love Jane Austen, so you can see it’s not like I don’t read any literature at all. I’m actually thinking, though, that if one were to really be serious about classifying her work, it would probably fall in the romance genre. I think you pretty much have to make everyone completely miserable, or die, or both, at the end to escape the genre fiction label. ;) (Okay, you got me. I’m being a wee bit sarcastic. But think of Tolstoy and Kafka, not to mention the interestingly misogynist D.H. Lawrence, and you kind of see I’m not exaggerating too much.)

In a way, after reading all the books on writing and going through my shelves of real literature, I feel like I ought to apologize for my books. They really aren’t lasting works of art that someone 50 years from now is going to buy and read. But you know what? That’s okay. Because I’ve finally realized my real goal. I just want to give a few folks a bit of a laugh or a happy ending to make their day a little brighter. Or put them to sleep. Whichever is needed most.

Perhaps not all books need to be great works of art. Sure, my goal (as I once told my boss) is to be perfect. I’d like my books to be absolutely perfect with rich writing, endearing characters, and a whacky plot. I’d like to be Louise Penny, Jane Austen, P.G. Wodehouse, Shirley Jackson, and Saki (H. H. Munro) all rolled into one. So I’ll never give up working, working, working to make my books better. When I have a moment, I go back and study the books I love the most. Then I try to extend my reach as a writer just a bit more with each chapter.

So, I hope there are some readers out there who aren’t looking for the next “Moby Dick” and just want a few hours of enjoyment.

What do you think? Leave a comment - I'd love to hear your thoughts on books, writing, and what you love to read.

Truth is Too Far-fetched for Fiction

Truth really is stranger than fiction, and thank goodness for that. While writers get their ideas from all kinds of crazy places including the cob-webbed corners of their dark little minds, sometimes their best ideas come from a bit of reality that is too weird to pass up.


That’s what happened to me.

I was researching crime in the 19th century and ran across an article about a young woman who had been living as a man. Catherine Wilson. It seems like the type of thing that only happens in fiction, but it does not. In fact, this one only one of many cases where independent women chose to live as men rather than face the restrictions and terrible choices endured by women before the 20th century.

One generation as passed since women broke through the barriers that said the only proper role for a woman was to be a wife and mother. Many today don’t have a real conception of what it was like to be beaten, starved or even imprisoned in a mental institution if you did not agree to do what you were told, and yet that’s what many women faced. You did what your parents or guardian said you should do and married who they said you should marry, and that was pretty much it. Sure, some ran away with lovers, but many of those subsequently ended up in poverty or resorting to prostitution to survive.

It was not a lovely world for women with no visible means of support.

So what about Catherine Wilson?

Catherine Wilson lived in Perth and by her account, assumed the dress of a boy when she was between six and seven years old. Her brother had died and when her parents followed him, Catherine found herself without protection.

She donned her deceased brother’s clothing, took the name of John Thomson, and sought employment with graziers (working with cattle). When she was around fifteen, she drove cattle to Hallow Fair, Edinburgh and left her job as a grazier to work in the stables of one Mr. Lawson. She left Lawson’s service when she got a better situation as a groom and foot boy with J. Williams, Esq.

She worked for the Williams family for two years, but was discharged after an argument. She wandered up to Leith and managed to find another job as a “lumper” and she lodged at a house run by a woman named Gray.

This was the start of her downfall.

Mrs. Gray somehow found out that John, aka Catherine, was a woman. Mrs. Gray had a daughter who had an affair with their butcher and gotten pregnant. Well, the butcher was already married and broke things off with the girl when he heard the news.

When Mrs. Gray discovered her tenant, John, was really a female, she saw a way out of her dilemma. She told John/Catherine that she was liable to transportation for going around dressed as a man, unless she agreed to Mrs. Gray’s demands. The Grays demanded that “John” marry the pregnant Mary Gray in order to conceal Mary’s shame and prevent the compulsory disclosure of the real father.

John/Catherine didn’t want to do that and ran away to Edinburgh where she got employment as a bricklayer. But she didn’t escape the clutches of the Grays. Mrs. Gray followed with a letter from Mary, reproaching John for deserting Mary after seducing her. Mrs. Gray handed this letter to John/Catherine’s employer, who discharged John/Catherine on the basis of this depravity.

Mrs. Gray assured John that the butcher agreed to pay a dowry to support his child if only John would marry Miss Gray. John/Catherine finally consented and married Miss Gray. But the couple never got the dowry and married life didn’t agree with John. John/Catherine found it difficult to support a wife, child and his mother-in-law. The last straw was when his “wife” Mary resumed her affair with the butcher and got pregnant again.

John/Catherine couldn’t stand it any longer and tried to run away, only to be dragged back by the parish officers for desertion of “his” family. Finally, John/Catherine went to the parish officers and revealed her true sex.

She resumed her petticoats and went to Glasgow where she sought work in a factory.

And that, my friends, was the story of Catherine Wilson and the inspiration for the premise behind my Regency romantic mystery, The Bricklayer’s Helper. My heroine, Sarah, becomes Sam when her family is murdered. She dons the attire of a lad and obtains work as a bricklayer, until the murderer discovers she’s still alive.

Then the troubles really begin.

While I really wanted her to marry her employer’s daughter (because I thought it would be hysterically funny) my editor convinced me to make it more believable. Obviously she’d never heard of Catherine Wilson and how she married to continue hiding her identify.

Sometimes, reality is too far-fetched for fiction.