READING AS A WRITER
I’ve always been an avid reader to the point where it’s almost an obsession. I cannot remember the last time I was not in the process of reading a book. If I go anywhere where there is the slightest chance of waiting, I feel naked if I do not bring a book along.
I’m sure most writers would agree that being a compulsive reader is a prerequisite for being a writer.
What I would like to discuss in this piece is how the appreciation of the book I am reading has changed. I began writing fiction approximately twelve years ago, and since then I have noticed that the qualities I look for in a book are different. Before I became a writer I was just appreciating the story at face value. Now I look for much more.
Now, when I read a book I look for character development. I look for descriptions of the character and how this sometimes leads to overwriting of the book. I will discuss this in an upcoming piece giving examples. Plot is something I examine, wondering if the author outlined the story or if events occur which the author did not see coming. In my writing, I sometimes use a dynamic outline with nothing cast in stone. I also have events occur that are created during the writing process.
Another quality I look for in a story is background information to explain details in the story. In science fiction, horror and fantasy not everything needs to be explained, nor should it be. But there comes a point where some background is necessary.
These are some of the changes I have in mind when reading. I wonder if other writers
approach a story differently since they began writing.
THE CASE OF CHARLES DEXTER WARD by H.P. LOVECRAFT
Our lab-mix, Millie, has not tolerated the thunderstorms very Here in southeastern Pennsylvania we have endured, for the last week or so, and continue to endure almost daily rain and thunderstorms.
well. My computer table is rather small with a printer beneath and all the necessary plugs and cords. During one particularly violent storm Millie squeezed all of her 61 pounds under the table while I was working. I fear that if I decided to turn on the vacuum cleaner during one of these events I would surely send poor Millie over the edge.
These storms, however, provided the perfect atmosphere for my latest reading endeavor, The Case of Charles Dexter Ward by H.P. Lovecraft.
The background of a good thunderstorm forms the perfect atmosphere of a story full of the nameless and unspeakable.
Unlike most of Lovecraft’s writing efforts, primarily short stories, this work is a short novel, one of his longest works. The story begins with Joseph Curwen and follows his activities during the late 17th and early 18th centuries. Curwen is consumed with certain mystical activities involving obscure chemistry and strange chants. Charles Dexter Ward is his great-great-great-grandson and follows in his relatives footsteps.
I love Lovecraft’s stories and his style of writing. However, I think he would have some difficulty finding a publisher in today’s market. This effort is almost exclusively narrative. As usual, the atmosphere of the story is rich with the bazaar and implied bazaar, but he occasionally violates the writer’s rule of ‘show don’t tell’.
Yet, no matter how archaic his work may be, I still enjoy his stories a great deal.
ANOTHER CLASSIC NOVEL
Writer’s Digest once published a list of famous authors and the books they considered essential books in their lives. One book mentioned by a great deal of them was One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The English translation was first published in 1970. In 1982, Marquez was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.
I felt an obligation to obtain this novel and recently finished reading it. It is both a haunting and haunted story. The one problem I had was the names and remembering which character was which, but Marquez provides a genealogy chart to help in this matter. The problem was that many of the names are very similar, but that confusion, on my part, was a small price to pay. This was a most excellent read. It’s one of those stories that is a little difficult to get into but once you’re there, you’re sorry when you’re finished.
It essentially follows a family that establishes a town in the Caribbean. The exact location is never revealed nor is the date. The story is populated by some characters that live well over a hundred years and by a healthy amount of ghosts. The book is full of both sorrow and humor. One common theme for most of the characters is no matter how many family members or friends they have, they experience a feeling of solitude in their lives.
I highly recommend giving this book a try.
A FATHER’S DAY POEM
The members of my writers group, The Wordwrights, were given an assignment to write a Father’s Day piece. I decided to write a poem.
The poem is bleak, but it reflects a trend I see.
I could be totally wrong. I hope I am.
THE FATHER THAT NEVER WAS
Contributing their seed,
They flee,
Gone.
Not knowing life was passed,
Never hearing the first cry
In the silent night,
Creating a hollow being,
Guidance from the streets
Of despair,
Walking a path
Into a world
Of dead ends,
Death, all too young
The only future.
H.P. LOVECRAFT, A CLASSIC AUTHOR OF HORROR
All my life I loved to read horror. As a teenager, I chose my reading material by the cover of the paperback, the more gruesome the better. It was during this period of my life that I discovered H.P. Lovecraft. I loved the moodiness of his stories and the amphibian-like humans the inhabited some of his stories only added to my pleasure.
I am in the process of rereading some of his work. Barnes & Noble sells an excellent compilation of all Lovecraft’s short stories and novellas. For $20 you get over one thousand pages of horror. The style of some of the stories is rather dated, but for the most part enjoyable.
Just recently I finished reading his novella The Dunwich Horror. As the story progresses, you realize something is not quite right with one of the main characters. It is the conclusion of the story that I found most satisfying. For horror fans, this is an excellent read and serves to maintain the Lovecraft approach to the land of the fantastic.
A NEW APPRECIATION OF AN OLD STORY
For the last few months I’ve been doing a lot of reading and I’d like to share with you a book that I recently finished that I found to be a fantastic read.
I’ve been haunting the local Goodwill Store lately, picking up books and stumbled across a paperback written by Nikos Kazantzakis and first published in 1952. The title of the book was well-known to me but I had no idea of what the story involved. I should add that he is also the author of The Last Temptation of Christ. The title of the book I wish to discuss is his novel, Zorba the Greek.
Who has not heard of this book, yet again how many continue to read this work? If I hadn’t stumbled upon it I too would have remained ignorant of this fantastic story.
The story takes place in Crete. The two main characters are the narrator, whom I think is never named. He is bookish young man who comes to Crete with money, hoping to make more. He hires Zorba and together they start mining for coal.
The thrust of the book is the frequent talks about what life is about and the existence of God between a young man wrapped in words and not life and 65 year old Zorba who has experienced life to its fullest and is not ready to stop his search for love and his lust for life.
This is not meant to be a review but only to let you know that this is a most satisfying read and worth the trouble to seek out this book.
Michael Dirda, a book critic for the Washington Post, loves used book stores. He said in one of his books that you should try reading something written fifty years ago indicating that there are long forgotten treasures out there. I found one.
I RETURN
My consistent readers,
I return after a long hiatus, part due to a seaside vacation and part to a regrouping of my priorities in life and my writing.
As difficult, and at times depressing, writing may be I have decided to attack the projects I have begun with more vigor and determination. I know I am not alone in this mystic endeavor when I say that I went through a long period thinking that anything I wrote was worthless and thought ‘who would read this shit’.
Those ghosts of despair are still lingering, but for better or for worse – I’m back.
NOT A MOTHER’S DAY STORY
As promised yesterday, my friends, here is a story about motherhood but totally inappropriate for Mother’s Day.
Let me know if you are curious and I’ll send you the full story.
THE INHERITANCE
May lay deathly still, listening, as her two daughters, Joan and Heidi, searched through her belongings looking for treasure. Joan was the first to speak, “I hope the old bat dies before the end of the month. That would save us a month’s rent.’
Heidi answered, “Quiet Joan, she’ll hear you.”
Joan replied, “Are you kidding? She’s toast. Even her doctor can’t explain what keeps her going.”
May Connors, age 62; lay dying in her bed in the small bedroom of her apartment in the assisted living wing of The Towers Nursing Home. She appeared as a corpse ready for burial, her face ashen and her jaw slack. Only the rare rise and fall of her chest brought home the fact that her withered body still harbored life. Cancer had ravaged her physically just as cruel circumstances had ravaged her existence. At one time her life was full of promise. Now she had nothing, nothing but the cruel words of her daughters that seared into her brain.
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY
First, I would like to wish all those moms out there a Happy Mother’s Day. I was going to post a short story, my only story that specifically is about a mother. But I felt it would be totally inappropriate and in poor taste. So I’ll post part of it tomorrow and see if anyone is interested in seeing the rest, FOR FREE.
In the meantime, here is a taste of another short story already published. Pardon the pun.
If anyone would like to see the entire story, just email me at wtrizna@comcast.net.
I promise you that all you will receive is the rest of the story. The only thing I ask is that if you enjoy the stories, tell your friends about my blog.
Here is a taste.
THE GIFT OF DEATH
Will’s bedroom was cast in shadows by the moonlight filtering through the window. Lying next to him was the naked body of a young woman. With her lips slightly parted, she appeared as if she were in a gentle sleep. He face, framed by short blond hair, was at peace. Her body was perfect, fit and trim. He knew she was dead. It was not the first time this happened and he knew, with disgust and resign, it would not be the last.
He had met the woman in a bar. They had returned to his apartment, both intoxicated and undressed for a session of lovemaking, but Will’s desires were much different than the girl’s. Will felt excitement as he entered her then his gaze fell to her neck. Lowering his head to that delicate neck was the last thing he remembered. He blacked out during the thrill of intense feeding. Before the feeding, Will felt an attraction for the girl, and for the short time they were together, he fought to keep himself under control with the fleeting promise of companionship. But as the alcoholic must have his drink, in the end, Will’s desire to feed won out.
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