I've always loved the "get out of the way" idea of creativity and putting something into the world. When you force something, based on someone else's or even your, pre-determined end point, it always feels "off" to you and I'm sure the reader.
Second, in Milan last year, my daughter yelled at the top of her lungs in our hotel room at 10 pm, for what felt like forever, but I think was 10 minutes, that "daddy was hurting me, stop hurting me, that hurts, you are hurting me." Why? Because I had the audacity to raise my voice and tell her she couldnt keep watching movies on the ipad. Your deleted story, while maybe not appropriate for Penhollow, does evoke a specific type of emotion that I think every parent feels at some point. I can still feel the anxiety I had, now, reading that.
I'd think the more jarring and concerning would be to read the notes and books from years and even decades ago only to realise that you haven't changed at all.
In writing and in life, the person we are now is not the same as the person we were 20 years ago. That can be good, bad or indifferent, but almost always true (hypotheses level true).
Additionally, I like this passage from your post. “Have you ever picked up a battered copy of a book you once loved, its margins crowded with notes from twenty years ago, only to feel destabilized, reading both the book and your comments and not recognizing yourself in either? The book has changed, because you have.” Earlier today I was thinking about this concept in a related context — novels I hated when I read them. There are two in particular: On The Road and Catcher In The Rye. These are acclaimed novels that I read for fun, not for class, and I just hated them. As I reminisced about this literary hate I wondered about the source of the hate (because I cannot recall it now). Did I hate the characters or the stories or the writing or some combo? Would my opinion be different today? I may or may not like these novels today but I am sure my perspective now is very different than it was then.
Man, I hated On the Road when I read it in high school, also for fun. I don't know if this will save you the trouble to try it again, but I gave it another go about four years ago and hated it even more. Just not for me. On Catcher--it's fine. Salinger's stories are in such a different league I mostly pretend it doesn't exist.
It's funny how we think we have a stubborn consistency in ourselves, but I'm certain there are old iterations of me I couldn't stand to be in the same room with, now. And not just because I'd be embarrassed by the naivete of youth or some benign thing like that.
I agree with your editor. That story didn't seem to add anything. I was able to create a vivid image of the scene in my head -- my daughter has done similar things -- but it felt out of place.
And I think you have nailed why: chapter 2 is from a different you. But it was necessary as the seed that allowed the rest of the book to bloom. Now that your book has buds, the seed can be discarded. You get to prune and water and maybe even throw on a bit of fertilizer. As I am learning from my wife as she takes on a gardening hobby, that is how you achieve the strongest plant.
I might send you the revised Chapter Two in a few days when I finish a draft to see if it lands better. Almost none of the chapter worked. The only bits that survived are bits and pieces of James talking with his father.
Gardening is an excellent metaphor for writing a book. You have some influence, but no real control.
I thought there was sort of a serial rejection of father figures going on with James. Maybe I read too much into this vignette. It certainly would have been put to the test in the military. You cannot be rejecting authority constantly and staying alive.
There's one point where James explicitly rejects a father figure, "I am not your son" re: Mr. Hazlett. So I can see why it might feel that way. I think James and his dad are actually quite close, in that very guarded, Irish Catholic kind of way. They understand each other, even if it's never explicitly said. The Cavans don't strike me as a family that says "I love you" a whole lot.
He comes back more deferential in some ways (he is deferential to Grant Peirce, who is something of a weird father-figure for him--their encounter at the cemetery, I find somehow paternal) and has a better sense of heirarchy (his running of Pennhollow), but he also comes back from the war a bit broken and he only devolves as the present-action moves forward.
The thing that gets me is when I run across something beyond me now. Something put down that I wouldn't even think of at the moment, but is genuinely interesting or insightful. It leaves me thinking: the decline has begun.
Two thoughts.
I've always loved the "get out of the way" idea of creativity and putting something into the world. When you force something, based on someone else's or even your, pre-determined end point, it always feels "off" to you and I'm sure the reader.
Second, in Milan last year, my daughter yelled at the top of her lungs in our hotel room at 10 pm, for what felt like forever, but I think was 10 minutes, that "daddy was hurting me, stop hurting me, that hurts, you are hurting me." Why? Because I had the audacity to raise my voice and tell her she couldnt keep watching movies on the ipad. Your deleted story, while maybe not appropriate for Penhollow, does evoke a specific type of emotion that I think every parent feels at some point. I can still feel the anxiety I had, now, reading that.
Probably lucky that happened in Milan and not, say, London!
I'd think the more jarring and concerning would be to read the notes and books from years and even decades ago only to realise that you haven't changed at all.
For sure. God, can you imagine?
In writing and in life, the person we are now is not the same as the person we were 20 years ago. That can be good, bad or indifferent, but almost always true (hypotheses level true).
Additionally, I like this passage from your post. “Have you ever picked up a battered copy of a book you once loved, its margins crowded with notes from twenty years ago, only to feel destabilized, reading both the book and your comments and not recognizing yourself in either? The book has changed, because you have.” Earlier today I was thinking about this concept in a related context — novels I hated when I read them. There are two in particular: On The Road and Catcher In The Rye. These are acclaimed novels that I read for fun, not for class, and I just hated them. As I reminisced about this literary hate I wondered about the source of the hate (because I cannot recall it now). Did I hate the characters or the stories or the writing or some combo? Would my opinion be different today? I may or may not like these novels today but I am sure my perspective now is very different than it was then.
Man, I hated On the Road when I read it in high school, also for fun. I don't know if this will save you the trouble to try it again, but I gave it another go about four years ago and hated it even more. Just not for me. On Catcher--it's fine. Salinger's stories are in such a different league I mostly pretend it doesn't exist.
It's funny how we think we have a stubborn consistency in ourselves, but I'm certain there are old iterations of me I couldn't stand to be in the same room with, now. And not just because I'd be embarrassed by the naivete of youth or some benign thing like that.
I agree with your editor. That story didn't seem to add anything. I was able to create a vivid image of the scene in my head -- my daughter has done similar things -- but it felt out of place.
And I think you have nailed why: chapter 2 is from a different you. But it was necessary as the seed that allowed the rest of the book to bloom. Now that your book has buds, the seed can be discarded. You get to prune and water and maybe even throw on a bit of fertilizer. As I am learning from my wife as she takes on a gardening hobby, that is how you achieve the strongest plant.
I might send you the revised Chapter Two in a few days when I finish a draft to see if it lands better. Almost none of the chapter worked. The only bits that survived are bits and pieces of James talking with his father.
Gardening is an excellent metaphor for writing a book. You have some influence, but no real control.
I thought there was sort of a serial rejection of father figures going on with James. Maybe I read too much into this vignette. It certainly would have been put to the test in the military. You cannot be rejecting authority constantly and staying alive.
There's one point where James explicitly rejects a father figure, "I am not your son" re: Mr. Hazlett. So I can see why it might feel that way. I think James and his dad are actually quite close, in that very guarded, Irish Catholic kind of way. They understand each other, even if it's never explicitly said. The Cavans don't strike me as a family that says "I love you" a whole lot.
Does he come back from War more deferential/more coachable? That I cannot recall because everything is out of order.
He comes back more deferential in some ways (he is deferential to Grant Peirce, who is something of a weird father-figure for him--their encounter at the cemetery, I find somehow paternal) and has a better sense of heirarchy (his running of Pennhollow), but he also comes back from the war a bit broken and he only devolves as the present-action moves forward.
oh, how I understand the shock value of thumbing through the earlier writings of your incarnation...oy- lol
The thing that gets me is when I run across something beyond me now. Something put down that I wouldn't even think of at the moment, but is genuinely interesting or insightful. It leaves me thinking: the decline has begun.