How novel-writing relates to real life

I recently came to the horrifying realization that once (or rather, if) my novel is published, my characters won't be my own any more. Each reader will appropriate them to him or herself and will probably picture them with certain attributes/characteristics that I may or may not have intended to give them as I wrote. That thought gives me pause when I imagine the glories of publication, because it means that my work may eventually escape my control.

In some ways--if the analogy isn't too weird--writing is like love. For a relationship to work, you must eventually lay all your cards on the table. Vulnerability is a frightening but necessary component in both cases: you cannot write a worthwhile novel without baring your soul to some degree, and it would be strange if writers were more honest with the reading public than one is with the love of one's life.

Also, you have to let go your grip on someone if you really want to love and be loved freely: compelling someone's affection is no kind of love. So too, writers have to hold their work with open hands. I have to accept the fact that some readers won't like what I write. Others will wish certain themes had been more or less developed, or imagine scenes differently than I have. But that's part of the glory of the reader-writer relationship--it allows our imaginations to meet, whatever the consequences. And surely the meeting of souls (and intellects) belongs not only of writing, but also to love.

[Pretend there's a picture here. Apparently I've reached my storage quota, so can't upload one at the moment . . .]

In principio erat Verbum.

Washington, D.C.

Words. Language. One of the most basic gifts that we as humans share. Words allow us to press beyond the barriers that separate one consciousness from another: to find connection in a world full of isolation. Words get beyond the physical to the spiritual. As a literature major and a writer, I have a close relationship with words. My dear literature professor, Dr. Libby, taught my classmates and I to recognize and value the profound skill with which great writers have wielded the written word for centuries past. Words define us in so many ways--culturally, socially, personally. Yet sometimes, when we desire most excruciatingly to verbalize our heart's agony or joy, words let us down.

Christ Himself, the Word of God, though innocent, stood silent before His accusers. He who had enthralled crowds like no other with his simple parables and authoritative teachings from Scripture. Though He never leaves us, sometimes God brings us also into the discipline of silence. In all likelihood, we will not be called to stand, unprotesting, in the face of death. But what about silence from someone we care about, creative silence, the silence of the grave . . . even silence from God? These wordless moments find us all sooner or later. The great question is, what will I do with that silence? Try to fill it--or wait?

I apologize if I've quoted these passages before. I think you'll find they're still relevant:

The Lord is good to those who wait for him,
    to the soul who seeks him.
It is good that one should wait quietly
    for the salvation of the Lord.
It is good for a man that he bear
    the yoke in his youth.

Let him sit alone in silence
    when it is laid on him;
let him put his mouth in the dust—
    there may yet be hope; 

 let him give his cheek to the one who strikes,
    and let him be filled with insults.

- Lamentations 3:25-30

He felt his hunger no longer as a pain but as a tide. He felt it rising in himself through time and darkness, rising through the centuries, and he knew that it rose in a line of men whose lives were chosen to sustain it, who would wander in the world, strangers from that violent country where the silence is never broken except to shout the truth.

- Flannery O'Connor, The Violent Bear It Away

In memoriam

Dr. Bonnie Libby, Associate Professor of Literature, Patrick Henry College

"The sequel of to-day unsolders all

The goodliest fellowship of famous knights

Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep

They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we

Shall never more, at any future time,

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,

Walking about the gardens and the halls

Of Camelot, as in the days that were."

 . . .

   Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint

As from beyond the limit of the world,

Like the last echo born of a great cry,

Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice

Around a king returning from his wars. 

 

[Excerpt from "Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson]

I wrote one of many commonplaces (brief reflective essays) for Dr. Libby on a portion of this poem. She had such a deep appreciation for the writers of the past--and a wonderfully encouraging approach to the work of aspiring writers such as myself. As a literature major, I took numerous classes with Dr. Libby and interacted with her often outside the classroom. Her office was always a welcoming place, complete with tea set and (of course) shelves and shelves of books. 

 

I believe it was the fall of my senior year that she had her Brit Lit students over to her house for chili and a viewing of She Stoops to Conquer. Another time, I joined one of the many Shakespeare outings she spearheaded for a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Even after I graduated, Dr. Libby continued to take an interest in my life, being willing--on multiple occasions--to write letters of reference for my graduate school applications. We also exchanged notes on our travels: she so loved her adventures in Ireland, and I wish I could have heard more about them. She suggested that I stay at The Highbury Centre when we talked about my upcoming visit to London; that proved such a blessing, as it was through The Highbury Centre that I found longer term housing in London last autumn. 

My greatest regret is not having had more time to talk with Dr. Libby (I still can't bring myself to call her Bonnie, though I'd known her for over two years outside of an official student-professor capacity) about our common loves of literature, travel, etc. Her quiet demeanor was undergirt by a great deal of wit, wisdom, and love of life and God. I wish I could have absorbed more of all of these qualities in the time I was privileged to study under her and know her as a friend.

The above excerpts, from the last of Tennyson's poems in his King Arthur cycle, not only remind me of Dr. Libby's love for beauty in poetry and prose, but capture as well my sense of loss at her passing and my trust that she has been well and gloriously welcomed into her eternal rest. 

 

Well done, good and faithful servant . . . Enter into the joy of your master.

~ Matthew 25:21

Ireland