Austen, Speare, or Something Else? Choosing a Mentor Novel

Novelists out there: Ever been asked to choose a “mentor” novel?

The intensive novel writing class I begin soon requires that I choose a mentor novel.  This is a novel that I have already read and loved for its style, genre, tone, plotting, humor, language, or whatever reason, and wish to emulate in some way.

Question is, what to choose?  What novels are educative for the writer learning her craft?

I can say what will not work.  My preference might be the Eliots and Tolstoys, but Middlemarch and War and Peace wouldn’t make good mentor novels.  At least, good mentor novels for the likes of me.  Why?  They are too long and too complex.  Normally, as a reader, I would consider these to be good qualities in a novel.  Who doesn’t love delving into the delightful complexities of an epic masterpiece?  But they fail as mentor novels because a writer would be hard-pressed to get their minds around the structure of those books.  And getting our minds around the structure of a book is what having a mentor novel is all about.

That being said, I’m toying with two novels right now:  Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and The Witch of Blackbird Pond by Elizabeth George Speare.

Pride and Prejudice is an easy, obvious choice.  I love Austen’s novels and I know them well (maybe a little too well). She’s a master at characterization, and emulating her would also help me achieve my near-impossible goal of being funny (considering that I’ve boldly opined on the lack of humor in new Catholic literature).  Perhaps, with Austen’s help, I’ll dream up another Mr. Collins?

Pinched from here.

Pinched from here.

One can only hope.

My one objection to using Pride and Prejudice is that it’s everyone’s mentor novel.  Need proof?  The Elizabeth Theory.  Contemporary fiction has way, way too many Elizabeth knockoffs.   Other than Shakespeare’s Beatrice (Much Ado About Nothing), I cannot think of a single female literary character prior to P&P with the temperament and talent of an Elizabeth Bennett.  She became a type when she arrived on the scene – a beloved and much imitated type – and since then our female characters are measured according to the Pride and Prejudice standard.

My more pressing goal, however, is to work on plotting, and for that I can think of no better example than the Newbury Award winning novel The Witch of Blackbird Pond That Disney hasn’t already turned it into a movie is surprising, considering its vast popularity with fifth-grade teachers.  It’s a compelling and tightly written story set in colonial Connecticut, and the opening chapters are near perfection in its hook, establishment of the premise, characterization, scene structure, and foreshadowing. And, being a children’s story, the plot is easier to analyze.  Kit is another Elizabeth Bennett type, of course, but otherwise it’d be a great book to imitate.

How about you?  What novel (or book, for you non-fiction writers) would you choose as a mentor novel, and why?

To Write is to Be a Child – Discovering My Vocation to Write, Part Two

As I mention in Part One, I did not plan or expect to write fiction.  Not seriously, at least.  I had been editor of my high school newspaper and, for a brief time, managing editor of my college newspaper.  I wrote for our church newsletter.  I was a member of the “Young Voices” team for the local paper.

In short, I was a young journalist.

My fondest academic memories of college were not of class but of writing.  I especially enjoyed taking a month off from class to write my Senior Essay.  I could have written on Mansfield Park happily for months.

In short, I was a budding academic.

But fiction?

Never crossed my mind.

My fiction rap sheet is short.  I wrote a few Jane Austen fan fic stories in high school.  I wrote a children’s book about two chocolate-covered maraschino cherries to fulfill an AP English assignment.  And my parents tell me that I wrote (drew) stories when I was very, very little.

“Discovering one’s inner child” is a clichéd concept. I’d laugh as much as anyone else… had I not discovered its truth in my own life.

Is it coincidence that I discovered my writing vocation while living with my parents, in my childhood home, after more than ten years of living far away?  I think not. My uncultivated talent is a small green-yellow spout unearthed from under moldering layers of years of forgetfulness.  It lay in the mind, heart, and activity of a little girl, a young storyteller who, for whatever reason, stopped telling stories.

It’s a curious directive, Christ asking us to “be like little children.”  Some people sentimentalize it; I hope I’m not one of them.  Learning to be a child is harder than it seems.  I am used to being an adult; I am used to calling the shots and being an authority.  And here I am, given a chance for “authority” of a different type – that is, of being an author – and I find myself at a loss.  I’ve never done this before.  I have no idea what I’m doing.  I am no authority!

I am an adult, I read fiction like an adult, but I cannot write fiction with the equivalent degree of writing maturity. To say that this is sometimes frustrating would be an understatement.  I know what I want but I cannot yet execute it.

But because I believe that I was given the gift of an idea, I am willing to be small, and humble, and trusting.  I am willing to learn from my teachers.  I am willing to put in the work necessary for seeing this idea grow to completion.  I am willing to make mistakes and to accept the correction of others.

I can’t wear big girl pants until I grow into them.

I was created to be a writer.  I must become who I was created to be.  It’s a joy to become who I was created to be.

Writer’s Notebook 6/12/12: And That’s How It All Went Down – With Rainbows

Last week, The Professor asked me when I had last worked on the novel.  As the answer was, “Not this past Monday but the Monday previous, and then, only three sentences,” I figured I had better stop waiting for Inspiration to Knock Me Upside the Head and set aside the time and the mental space for my most central of projects.

Guess what?  It’s working.

I have a prologue.  I never thought my novel would be the type to have a prologue.  But last Thursday a piece of the back story fell into place in my imagination, and, like logical magic (because it all really is very logical), bam!  Prologue.  And with the prologue, I gained insight, focus, and momentum.

I also have a few more scenes – or, at least, parts of scenes – written today.  And this with the added distraction of my Inner Perfectionist getting all maimed and mangled because I made an honest mistake over something so simple and I looked like a fool and turn on the Self-Justification and suck my thumb and and and…

Distraction.  Gah.  But my husband reminded me of my own maxim: give this to my characters.  I can stay stuck in crazy, or I can let Lisa, Chuck, Sean, Tess and Co. have at it.

And so I did.  And now I have another scene.

Oh, I should mention, this helps:

But not too much, or things starting looking like this:

And then we can’t write, now, can we?

Moving on… My husband just called, on his way home from his sanity night away from the house, to tell me to look out the window.  And what did I see?

And, the other end:

Hard to capture with a standard camera and no photography skills whatsoever, but that’s a full arc-en-ciel, shining forth like all things bright and beautiful, to quote the poet.  With such a rainbow, it’s easy to see why God gave it to Noah as a sign of His covenant.  The flash of color across a half-stormy, half-glaring-white-light sky bespeaks hope, simply.

And looking at my first attempts, I need all the hope I can get.  Because it can only get better from here!  And I mean that without disparaging myself in the least.  Falsehoods lead to false hope.  Looking the truth of the matter (i.e. not knowing what I’m doing) square in the eye leads to true hope.  Perhaps it’s this glass of wine, but I’m making sense to myself, at least.

Switching subjects radically… I’ve come to see how important reading is to my writing.  When I read, I’m working.  I have become so used to spending most of my free time writing that, until recently, I had forgotten to spendsome of my free time reading, as well.

Now, the Professor and I usually read literature.  Classics.  Stories proven by the test of time and critics.  However… reading the best and only the best provides a limited education for one so clueless about the craft of writing.

The bad, bad novels – the absurd, the boring, the meandering, the phony, the doozies – teach me a great deal, too – i.e. DON’T DO THAT!

Rest assured, I do not spend any of my husband’s hard-earned cashola on these bad novels.  The public library is kind enough to spend public funds on such failed works of something-or-other.   I pick up a few new releases at a time, start them, and (as predicted in Noah Lukeman’s book, The First Five Pages), either keep going or chuck the project after the first, or possibly the second, chapter.

I’m grateful for this week to work on the novel.  I’m grateful for wine, and rainbows, and good and bad books.   And that’s a wrap.

Sticks, Snow, and the Delight of Being (with some links)

Our young son loves The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats.  It’s a good thing I also love this book, because he and I have read it, oh, 300 times in the last month.  Give or take.

“Crunch, crunch, crunch,” Ben says as I turn the page.

“That’s right!” I say.  “’Crunch, crunch, crunch, his feet sank into the snow…’”

Read more at CatholicMom.com…

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It’s been a busy day for children’s book out there in Catholic bloggy land.  Besides my article (with my misspelling of “piqued,” garh), check these out:

Oh, The Places You Will Go!

A Story Time Survival Guide

Books That Get Childhood Right

Ten Read-Aloud Books That I Could Read Over and Over

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