I'm trying to write a book that has Autistic Characters in it

[Greatshield17]

Definition of postlapsarian
: of, relating to, or characteristic of the time or state after the fall of humankind described in the Bible
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adjective
occurring or being after the Fall of Humanity
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The state of being which followed the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden.

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So in other words, a postlapsidarian is anyone who was born after the fall of Adam and Eve

Your use of the term common lapsidarian applies to all of humankind, does it not?

Lapsarian applies to all of humanity, (accept for Our Lady and Her Son) Common Lapsarian refers to the majourity of humanity while Uncommon Lapsarian refers to the minority of humanity.

 

[Greatshield17]

I have read a variety of your writings as you know. I think it would be a great idea to enrol for a creative writing course, and learn more about the ways to create characters and all the many skills involved in writing. I think you would enjoy and be really interested in the type of inputs you can get, which can be online or in person.

Asking us for ideas about this skates over the fact that you just don't yet have this craft studied and learnt, just like I can't be a car mechanic when I don't yet understand much about cars, or a chef when I haven't yet studied and learned how to cook.

How much do these classes cost? I’ve been having difficulty managing my money recently; also, how long do these classes tend to be? I’d prefer to have my book published sooner, rather than later.

Finally is it common for instructors in these online classes to accept requests by their students to read their works and offer advice and critiques?

 

[Greatshield17]

@Streetwise while I believe you’re referring to the novel as a whole, (which should be the main topic of this thread) I should mention that in regards to the term Common Lapsarian, while the term Lapsarian isn’t used much by Catholic Theologians and philosophers, it is used nonetheless and is recognizable. A Catholic well-versed in especially philosophy, should be able to grasp the term, (especially considering it’s introduced and explained not once but twice in the novel; once in the present, once in a flashback in which the characters come up with it) or at the very least grasp it better then the term Neurotypical which is untraditional, philosophically vague, and can easily be dismissed as a “woke, PC” term.

 

[tree]

Typical can have overtones of inferiority as well, as can uncommon, atypical, and “special.”

So, at least one of the characters will be concerned with
the nuances of the term, I imagine. And there will be conversation
about it. Different outlooks, within the ASD camp. One, having had
the experience of being called named/being labeled, might
need assurance that the nelogism (CL) is not meant as a slur.
Assuming there is a character who is sensitive to the meaning of
words.

 

[Greatshield17]

I am thinking about it.

 

[Streetwise]

@Streetwise while I believe you’re referring to the novel as a whole, (which should be the main topic of this thread) I should mention that in regards to the term Common Lapsarian, while the term Lapsarian isn’t used much by Catholic Theologians and philosophers, it is used nonetheless and is recognizable. A Catholic well-versed in especially philosophy, should be able to grasp the term, (especially considering it’s introduced and explained not once but twice in the novel; once in the present, once in a flashback in which the characters come up with it) or at the very least grasp it better then the term Neurotypical which is untraditional, philosophically vague, and can easily be dismissed as a “woke, PC” term.

I wasn't referring solely to that but Roman Catholics might vibe with a character called Joseph and other reasons pertaining to Roman Catholicism

 

[Thinx]

How much do these classes cost? I’ve been having difficulty managing my money recently; also, how long do these classes tend to be? I’d prefer to have my book published sooner, rather than later.

Finally is it common for instructors in these online classes to accept requests by their students to read their works and offer advice and critiques?

Well, like any craft or skill you are learning, creative writing training comes at different levels and depths, and generally you can easily access basic level courses. From what I have read of your work, you are not yet near the skills level you would need to be able to write and publish a book. Putting words on paper and having some ideas is a good start though.

Your work would be listened to and discussed sometimes, and you would get the useful chance to hear and comment on others work.

There really is a lot to learn. You need to find out how to structure a story and give it depth and complexity. You need to be able to critique your own writing, and be realistic about the stage you are at, where at present you maybe get an idea, have 2 characters you give some dialogue to, and that's more or less all.

Currently your characters can't 'come alive' because you do not know ways to give them depth or complexity, you can learn all this though.

You would need a class that teaches you how to construct characters, and understand story structure, rather than just a writing workshop. In uk we could get these as evening classes or online classes, or at different academic levels. Most would have a cost, but there is some good free stuff out there too.

Getting published will entail finding out how to write stories that are interesting and well written. ( Apart from publishing stuff at your own expense, where there's no need to write well as the publisher doesn't mind what level of skill or lack of skill you have, because you just pay them... That's called Vanity publishing ).

You can get a very good idea of the current abilities and needs you have as a writer through attending classes, or getting an assessment of 50 pages say, from an editor. That entails a cost, and I would suggest you learn more about how to write before you pay to have your work assessed, because currently there's lots you need to develop further.

 

[Greatshield17]

I wasn't referring solely to that but Roman Catholics might vibe with a character called Joseph and other reasons pertaining to Roman Catholicism

Yes, all the characters in this story have meaningful names, including the characters of Jonathan and Monica, who are shown and mentioned respectively in this chapter. In fact Monica is one of the most important characters in this story, and as I was reading your post, I actually got the idea to see if I can mention her in chapter 4, as a form of foreshadowing and to clue the audience in on her, I already included a reference to her in a re-write of chapter 1, I don't think I can include her into chapter 3 though.

 

[VictorR]

Well, like any craft or skill you are learning, creative writing training comes at different levels and depths, and generally you can easily access basic level courses. From what I have read of your work, you are not yet near the skills level you would need to be able to write and publish a book. Putting words on paper and having some ideas is a good start though.

Your work would be listened to and discussed sometimes, and you would get the useful chance to hear and comment on others work.

There really is a lot to learn. You need to find out how to structure a story and give it depth and complexity. You need to be able to critique your own writing, and be realistic about the stage you are at, where at present you maybe get an idea, have 2 characters you give some dialogue to, and that's more or less all.

Currently your characters can't 'come alive' because you do not know ways to give them depth or complexity, you can learn all this though.

You would need a class that teaches you how to construct characters, and understand story structure, rather than just a writing workshop. In uk we could get these as evening classes or online classes, or at different academic levels. Most would have a cost, but there is some good free stuff out there too.

Getting published will entail finding out how to write stories that are interesting and well written. ( Apart from publishing stuff at your own expense, where there's no need to write well as the publisher doesn't mind what level of skill or lack of skill you have, because you just pay them... That's called Vanity publishing ).

You can get a very good idea of the current abilities and needs you have as a writer through attending classes, or getting an assessment of 50 pages say, from an editor. That entails a cost, and I would suggest you learn more about how to write before you pay to have your work assessed, because currently there's lots you need to develop further.

An excellent and in-depth overview @Thinx

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@Greatshield17

If you're seeking online for-credit (e.g. standard 3 credit courses towards a 120 credit bachelor's degree, 60 credit diploma or associate degree, or other credentials) courses, the most comprehensive option in Canada would be Athabasca University and they have several creative writing courses at the third year level Course offerings | Online learning | Athabasca University

I believe the all-in fee is $970 per course (in addition to an one-time $120 application fee). Post-secondary level courses are eligible for government student loans and grants.

Standard university courses are for one semester (typically 12-15 lectures/sessions of 3 hours each).

Courses often have prerequisites - courses which you are required to have previously completed first before enrollment, to ensure you have the appropriate foundations. Some courses may also require an interview and instructor approval, which may include showing samples of previous work.

Athabasca's ENGL 381 Creative Writing in Prose for example requires three specific prior courses in addition to permission from the professor.

Even if you don't take a course, looking at the outline and seeing what texts they're using can be interesting as you may wish to purchase a copy of the text to get an idea of things.

---

In BC, Thompson Rivers University is also respected for its online and distance course offerings, though with a more limited selection of courses, and it doesn't look like creative writing is currently offered.


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If you're considering perhaps learning outside of academia, how about joining a writer's society or guild?
The Federation of BC Writers welcomes writers in all genres at all levels, and they appear to have circles (groups) where writers can provide mutual support.

 

[Greatshield17]

If you're considering perhaps learning outside of academia, how about joining a writer's society or guild?
The Federation of BC Writers welcomes writers in all genres at all levels, and they appear to have circles (groups) where writers can provide mutual support.

Thanks, I prefer this to academia.

 

[Greatshield17]

Okay, can everyone help me develop this character, her name is Christy, she plays a very important role in the novel, and now I realize she's even more important as the novel starts with her, I really need to work on fleshing out her personality more. Christy Brandson is an NT/CL, I want to portray her as a normal, everyday girl, yet she posses a keen awareness of, and deep value of, the importance of human friendship and tries be friendly with everyone:

Spoiler

in the past, in which the key conflict in the novel takes place she takes the side of the opposition to Autism Acceptance, due to her lack of understanding of Autism. She views Autistic people as cold and misanthropic and ends up unintentionally saying some cruel, dehumanizing things about them, though in the end she learns to accept them is now good friends with most of them.

 

[Gerontius]

Christy (I had her last name but now I've forgotten it) is an NT/CL, I want to portray her as a normal, everyday girl, but she's keenly aware of, and deeply values the importance of human friendship and tries be friendly with everyone

OK, I italicized what might be the issue.

The key problem here is the "but"-- sounds almost like she is unusual for having literally one of the most bog-standard traits of common human decency. Saying someone is NT but can understand the importance of friendship almost sounds, at first glance, very condescending towards neurotypicals. That's like saying "Christy is an excellent human even though she is black." See how it sounds? When you write her scenes, or scenes where everyone's reacting to her, write based on her strengths & weaknesses--where you could say "Christy values friendship." Or you can go deeper--this is a novel, not a short story; you can show us all this and not tell us. "Christy occasionally struggles with charity and sometimes her kindness may be superficially motivated, but at heart she possesses real empathy and can be flexible enough to extend this even to people she does not fully understand. At times she struggles with remorse for having been needlessly hurtful in the past, but does not know how to reopen that with some of her friends--they are different from her, and an invisible barrier of behavior separates them from her. She wonders sometimes whether it is even worth asking for forgiveness and risking the destruction of what already exists."

But you're the novelist not the Weekly Reader.

So I'll throw an example in a reply once I re-read the first draft that you have up so far. Let me give this a little shot & see what we can come up with....

If she's a key character, try to figure out what motivates her--her preferences, interests, daily routine. (This, for all your characters, at least the ones you want the reader to give a rip about.) Then the story will write itself. I saw you aren't thrilled with academia, but guess what is in academia--some solid writing advice and the literary theory that is more a tool in the writer's toolbox than his paper and pen. (Or his laptop.) Character development is the only thing that is going to save this novel. (Every novel has that first-draft stage where it's pretty good kindling; it's the nature of the beast. It will take on a life of its own and improve, if it wants to be written.)


Most people try to be decent. Maybe Christy values conformity; well, that's fine. We all got to get to know her a little better, and all your other characters, and that's your job as the author.

Anyway I'm going to go get back into some of that academia you don't like, and go look at Thomistic metaphysics where all the terminology is preserved intact, in the interest of continuing the old traditions (which are much easier done with said terminology still intact.) Criticism? Yes. You should be your own worst, at this point, but wait until you get to the beginning of the second-draft stage.

And I can only say that too much insistence on revisionist terminology and preaching will be a fast track to pulling a Norman Boutin.

 

[Greatshield17]

Here are chapters 1 & 3 of my novel, where one can witness Christy in action. I’ll save any passive-aggressive responses to rash judgments and attacks on my reputation for tomorrow, I still have to finish chapter 4 of my draft; have fun in the meantime:

Spoiler: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Christian Girl Autumn

I wish I had someone else to be here with me.

This desire Christy Brandson had was very deep, it was close to her heart and often on her mind that day, as she walked through the autumnal scenery in a park in Canton Massachusetts. The colour of the leaves danced before her eyes as she passed between the trees that gathered on either side of her, like she was passing through a mystical fairytale-like hall. She loved the scenery, she wouldn't be here otherwise, but oh how she wished she had some friend here to enjoy it with her!

Why couldn't I just get one, just one person available to be out here with me? She thought as she continued down the empty pathway before her. She had been asking her friends for days to see if someone was available, yet none of them could make it for a simple, literal walk in the park. To tell the truth, Christy was a bit concerned about the state of her friendship with most of the people she knew, she was Catholic, and most people didn't share her Faith. Last year, something happened at her church that caused her to deepen her Faith and this put a strain on her relationship with most of her friends, it also didn't help that last year just happened to be 2016!

Christy smiled sadly as she thought about what one of her Catholic friends, Monica, might say, she share Christy's deepened Faith brought about by last year's event:

You're never really alone, God, Mary, all the Angels and Saints are always there with you, you have plenty of company!

But it's hard to focus on Them! Christy thought in response, You yourself admit that you struggle with distractions, and you're way better at focusing on stuff than I am!

Christy's long blond hair, and flowery orange flowed suddenly from a gentle yet cold and dry breeze which had begun to blow. She was standing before a crossroad, one path branching off to her left while the main road continued on. There was not a human soul in sight, the emptiness of all that lay before and within her, was only lightened by the warm colour of the trees and the pale light of the sun above. But as she crossed the leftward path and looked down it, her face lit up at what she saw:

Finally, someone else!

Sitting on a park bench under a maple tree was another girl, about the same age as Christy or maybe younger; as her face looked oddly youthful. This girl was quite different from Christy, she wore black sweatpants, and a black hoody which was unzipped revealing a grey T-shirt underneath. On her head the girl wore a tan-coloured bucket hat, covering her short hair that was more or less as red as the maple tree she sat under. She wore glasses that sat on a nose, that seemed somewhat exaggeratedly pointy to Christy, probably due to the fact that the girl seemed to be really engrossed in the book she was reading; she was bent over on the bench, her eyes staring through her glasses with an almost laser-like focus at the pages before her.

However, as engrossed in her book as the girl appeared to be to Christy, it immediately became apparent that the girl could go even further; as she seemed to be aware of Christy’s presence. Christy had not seen the girl look up from her book but it was clear from the girl’s eyes and body posture that she was aware of her, perhaps her eyes darted up to her before Christy noticed, or perhaps she heard Christy approaching from behind the trees; either way, the girl’s body had become tense and there was clear, discomfort and nervousness in her eyes as they stared into her book.

“Hey there!” Christy shouted warmly waiving at the girl, “I’m Christy, here let me give something to you!”

As Christy had hoped, her offering to give something to the girl had perked the girl’s attention, though she was still clearly very shy, her body posture showing clear discomfort, and she was not making eye-contact with Christy; although she was looking in Christy’s direction, in fact her eyes were focused keenly on Christy’s arm as she was reaching into her purse. As Christy reached the girl, and pulled the item out of her purse; the girl shyly held out her hand to receive it, almost flinching as the tiny object landed in her hand.

“It’s a Miraculous Medal!” Christy explained as the girl timidly eyed the figure of Our Lady on the medal.

“Oh...” the girl responded, her voice was very soft and delicate.

“Well,” Christy said, “What do you think? Do you like it?”

“Uhm yeah,” the girl replied still looking at the medal, “It looks nice it, looks real good.”

Christy suddenly got the idea to bring up Tolkien, so she asked the girl, “Do like The Lord of the Rings?”

“Yeah, I like a lot of Tolkien’s works, I read quite a bit of him.” The girl responded, her voice sounding more relaxed now, though still very quiet; “Actually um…” the girl hesitated, she was still looking at the medal, but there was conflict in her eyes as she considered whether or not to go forward with the conversation; then she continued, “actually, I have a question.”

“Oh?” Christy replied, she was actually delighted that girl had decided to go forward and open up more.

“This uh,” the girl continued, “this is Mary on the medal right?”

“Uh-huh.” Answered Christy.

“And um, in Tolkien’s universe,” the girl went on, still hesitantly, “the Vala Elbereth or Varda, she represents Mary right?”

“Yes, that’s right!” Christy replied, eager to see where this conversation would lead to.

“Well um,” the girl began to tense-up, her eyes squinted and it became apparent that she wasn’t actually looking at the the medal but rather deep in thought. “I don’t want to sound offensive or anything but,” for the first time she looked into Christy’s face, not making direct eye-contact with her, but examining Christy’s face cautiously, as though she feared what she was about to say would make Christy furious with her; “doesn’t um, doesn’t having Elbereth represent Mary in there;” her face turned towards the ground again, it seemed like she was drifting into thought as she spoke; “doesn’t uh, doesn’t that sort of sound like… what fundamentalists accuse you praying to Mary of being, you know; ‘goddess worship?’” She lifted up her head as she made the air quotes, but she wasn’t looking in Christy’s direction as she said this.

Christy’s friendly smile turned to one of benign curiosity, she put her hand her chin and replied, “that’s an interesting question…”

The red-headed girl’s strange behaviour throughout their conversation did not go unnoticed by Christy; her not making eye-contact, her extreme social anxiety to the point that she was acting as though she would melt-away at Christy’s warmth, and now this unusual question all made Christy wonder.

Could this girl possibly be… like some other people I know well?

 

[Greatshield17]

Spoiler: Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Paula

“I see, I guess I’ve been putting too much thought into this.”

Paula felt the wood of the bench, and the concrete of the sidewalk, press into her tense body through clothing and shoes as she sat there. She was so anxious, she wasn’t even sure if she was embarrassed over what she had said, or how embarrassed she should be.

Perhaps I’ll feel this later. She thought.

“That’s alright, it was an interesting question,” the girl named Christy replied, perhaps sensing Paula’s potential embarrassment. “Most people don’t think too much about, they just take it as a cool fantasy.”

“Oh…” Paula replied very softly, hopefully loud enough for Christy to hear. Yet just as she started wondering about whether or not the girl could hear her, she suddenly became aware of the fact that her anxiety, while very great at the moment, could be manageable.

Relax! She told herself. Her eyes had been on the medal Christy had given her the whole time, but she hadn’t been focusing on it until now, her mind had been too caught-up in her anxiety. She had gotten mixed-emotion from the medal, for some reason Catholic depictions of Mary had often made her feel uneasy and nervous, the same was true for this medal. Yet now, as she stared at it, more positive vibes began to stir-up in her, she started to have feelings of peace and hope, as she stared at the image of the Blessed Virgin engraved on the medal.

Don’t worry, she began to tell herself, this girl is being nice to you. She means you well.

She slowly began to calm down, yet even as she did, other negative thoughts began to slip into her mind,

I really hope she doesn’t think I don’t like her or something, she thought, It’s not fair! Just because I have a hard time talking to people, doesn’t mean I don’t like them. I do like other people, I’m not cold uncaring towards, I genuinely care about them.

“I guess I should ask you,” Christy suddenly started talking, “Do you believe in God?”

“Well,” Paula hesitated, her mind looked through all the thoughts and memories she had on the subject, all that she had read and heard, all the debates she had witnessed, and all the thoughts and questions she had wondered about,

“It uh, it would be great if God existed but, I just don’t know… I have listened to both Theists and Atheists argue for and against God’s existence and, I just haven’t heard any arguments that really prove God either doesn’t exist, or does exist.”

Her mind was still focusing on this topic as she answered it and she spoke it turned to one very important aspect of this subject, morality, Paula highly valued morality and justice and she felt that the existence or non-existence played an important role in this,

“It would be great if I could know for sure God did exist, and not because knowing God existed would make me feel good; I’ve never been able to find an Atheist who could give me a good explanation of morality making sense without God, I just can’t see morality being a real thing without God. But again, I haven’t heard any sure fire argument for or against God’s existence.”

She sat there, her mind focussed on the huge topic that this conversation had landed on. Paula genuinely believed that she wasn’t able to believe one or another, she didn’t like how some Atheists acted as though science “proved” God does not exist, Paula herself was well-versed in science (especially chemistry) and knew that science didn’t really prove things one way or another,

It would be really easy for a believer to view the elements as ‘building blocks’ for the universe, she thought. I'm actually quite surprised most Christians don’t really talk about it that way. But again, that’s just someone who believes, reading their beliefs into that, it’s a fascinating thing, but it doesn’t show whether the universe was made by Someone to not.

She was still facing the medal in her hand, as she thought about this subject. She came out of her thoughts and focused again, on the image of Mary on the medal.

Why Mary? She thought, I mean, why this, why this effort to make God so, culturally normal?

Paula’s mind sailed somewhat aloofly through all the religious art she had seen,

I’m not against culture and all that, it’s just, this is God we’re talking about, He’s above all that, again if He exists. He made everything, there’s much more in this world, I wish people understood that! All the elements, the atoms that lie invisibly, right before their eyes! They’re all like a bunch of herbs and spices sprinkled into a delicious dish for us!

“But we can’t live that!” Christy said, stirring Paula out of her informal contemplation as she continued the conversation she had started, “We can’t live without morality being a real thing; and God being there to make morality real.”

Paula gave a response without thinking, “That’s just it, God and morality can only exist because that works for us; not regardless of what we think or feel about the matter. Our feelings about how things should or should not work or be shouldn’t play into this, either God is real or He isn’t; things are either right or wrong because they are right or wrong, not because we want them to be right or wrong, or it’s easier for us for them to be right or wrong.”

Paula instantly realized what she sounded like and instantly regretted that response,

I’m definitely going to feel THAT later!

 

[Gerontius]

I read some of your first draft. Grammar is rough, and since you aren't fond of criticism of your own work without mistaking it for "rash judgment and" whatever whatever bullcrap, I recommend you get very good at self-editing which requires a certain amount of detachment from your work.

So, let me just try pretending for a moment that we have Christy meeting some of the guys in the book, the autistic guys. (And this is not the way that Christy is portrayed in your drafts necessarily.)

Christy finished her bagel and fed the last bite to Lulu, then watched the pigeons as she drank the last of her morning coffee. Putting her papers back in her handbag she paid the check and slipped a healthy tip under her plate for the waitress. If life was going to be full of surprises, she thought, then perhaps she could ensure that they were good ones. And Maisie was going to be off for maternity leave eventually so the right tips could almost be a miniature baby shower.

Taking Lulu's leash she walked down past the other café, the one that served hot coffee but had ice-cold staff. The day was too warm to think of work much, and since she had gotten that out of the way there was no need to hurry back to the office as usual. Beautiful sun, beautiful people--even the iridescence on the bobbing necks of pigeons in the gutter stood out brighter and --
"Walking here!"
"Sorry!"
The nameless balding man who ran the hardware store stayed mad all the time but it was impossible to be mad at him for long. He piled the stack of rakes at the door and "swept" Christy further along the sidewalk. She turned back and smiled. A corner of his mouth creased which was about as much smiling as he did in a month and he disappeared into the blackness of the store, slamming the screen-door and swearing insincerely. "Take the whole sidewalk, why don't you." Christy fancied she heard half a laugh.

Then at the steps of St. Adalbert the Inconvenient parish Lulu began yapping and Christy saw Joseph and a few other men emerging from the basement. One held a furled banner on a long pole, fringed with gold braid and decked with iron-on appliqué. There was a man in the background who, she thought, resembled Clark Gable, and one who looked a bit like General Custer. Perhaps it was the uniform--they were all wearing uniforms, something like a Pullman conductor without his watch or the Keystone Cops without their hats. It was anachronistic enough to almost blend in, and not the oddest thing she'd seen in Seattle. Joseph looked up and away, uncomfortable in his blue serge collar. He nodded.
"Hey, everyone matches!" Christy said.
"Not bad for the first meeting of the season," Joseph said flatly, readjusting a basted-on epaulette. "A sort of fraternal organization."
"Okay, lodge night--but you can't well hold a bachelor party in the basement of a Catholic church. Or can you? Would you get to say a blessing for the sins you're about to commit?" she asked, laughing.
Joseph bristled. "Not how it works, Christy--" He said Christy the way most people would say cyanide or Osama bin Laden. "There's a need for what we are doing here because of--"
"Oh, so there's no beer."
"Why is this funny?"
"Don't know. Why are you avoiding eye contact while dressed like Friar Tuck stole Buster Keaton's clothes?"
Joseph thought and a thousand fighting sentences boiled to the front of his mind. He opened his mouth, shut it again, fought off a flippant reply to flippancy. In a half second he had planned and delivered a philippic. He looked at the street lamp across the way. "Hell," he said, and walked over to his friends who had gathered off to the side away from unwanted human contact.
"Who was that?" asked someone.
The awkwardness broke when a sagging Toyota drew up at the curb, "Office Machines Serviced" brushed on the side. The engine backfired and cut out and the driver, painfully thin with enamel paint and filth ground into the cuffs of his shirt, got out. Christy smiled, but he looked away pretending to adjust a spidery pair of wire spectacles. He unloaded three heavy boxes from the trunk.
"Parcel here for a Joseph--"
"That's me."
"Sign here and here." They signed & shook hands. "Brother laser-jet printer, enough toner to last six months, and the fliers for the Claritas meetings--and the certificate for the Texas chapter."
"Be nice to get a letter from the Texas chapter," Joseph said bitterly.
"Well, tell them their wife is in the pound for biting people, someone wrecked the dog, and the house ran off with a traveling salesman," said the repairman. "Not funny? OK."
"It's one of those days."
"Don't let the bastards get you down." He kicked the tire of the car. "I guess I need to finish my route."
Neither one of them is making eye contact, Christy thought, watching them. She could have voiced the encounter like David Attenborough.
"Shut that damn dog up," the driver muttered, getting back in the car and fighting the lever into neutral. Christy realized Lulu had been barking at the top of her doggy lungs the whole time and that she had blocked it out. "Not everyone loves that yap-yap-yap."
"Excuse me?"
The driver again ignored her. The arches of the church in the background formed a sort of Renaissance triptych: Joseph, short and bespectacled and roundfaced on the sidewalk, sainted by the Gothic arch of the front door, and on the other side the thin drawn face of the mechanic. The Corolla shook itself into first gear and ground painfully away from the curb in a cloud of greasy smoke, a suitable exit for a medieval demon in a rolling Hell-mouth of a morality play. And this put Christy where in the altarpiece? Center, bottom left, with tiny yapping dog--the finely dressed wealthy donor, painted very small and very serious, a figure with no halo but the potential for one, enigma for history and lost in the present.

Joseph did not speak to her. He and his friends had gone by now, taking the parcels with them. Christy wondered whether or not to try texting him but the veil of the great difference stayed inviolate.

"Nuts!" she explained. And the day had lost some of the luster and it was already growing a trifle cold.


I patterned a lot of these people after some of the folks I would meet after Latin Mass on Saturdays, most of whom were almost certainly autistic and who were also the reason I have had issues with the Church's people. (Anti-Semitic comments from the priest and support of Fascist Spain have been omitted as those were local color.) Nobody is presented perfect so--if everyone is flawed, everyone's character can develop. (Including Joseph who may just be very confused by Christy goofing off. This lets that whole Claritas thing end up as actually providing clarity--bad pun; I love bad puns--when they find out about the whole autism thing.) But I feel like Joseph & co. are dreadfully pedantic. Not necessarily inaccurate, but hard for reading long term.

So I wrote everybody with a little bit of ugly in them, and there's got to be a little bit of good in people that intense. Anyway, just a trial run with the idea I mentioned earlier of showing this stuff through interactions and the actual characters themselves. The drafts felt very two-dimensional and reminded me (through ultra-symbolic names, heavy didactic tone, parochial aesthetic) more of "The Last Fisherman" which is already in print. Good news, it's a Catholic novel. Bad news, it's the second worst novel I've ever read, the first worst being "Empress Theresa," and nominations for third place open.

 

[Greatshield17]

I read some of your first draft. Grammar is rough, and since you aren't fond of criticism of your own work without mistaking it for "rash judgment and" whatever whatever bullcrap, I recommend you get very good at self-editing which requires a certain amount of detachment from your work.

So, let me just try pretending for a moment that we have Christy meeting some of the guys in the book, the autistic guys. (And this is not the way that Christy is portrayed in your drafts necessarily.)

Christy finished her bagel and fed the last bite to Lulu, then watched the pigeons as she drank the last of her morning coffee. Putting her papers back in her handbag she paid the check and slipped a healthy tip under her plate for the waitress. If life was going to be full of surprises, she thought, then perhaps she could ensure that they were good ones. And Maisie was going to be off for maternity leave eventually so the right tips could almost be a miniature baby shower.

Taking Lulu's leash she walked down past the other café, the one that served hot coffee but had ice-cold staff. The day was too warm to think of work much, and since she had gotten that out of the way there was no need to hurry back to the office as usual. Beautiful sun, beautiful people--even the iridescence on the bobbing necks of pigeons in the gutter stood out brighter and --
"Walking here!"
"Sorry!"
The nameless balding man who ran the hardware store stayed mad all the time but it was impossible to be mad at him for long. He piled the stack of rakes at the door and "swept" Christy further along the sidewalk. She turned back and smiled. A corner of his mouth creased which was about as much smiling as he did in a month and he disappeared into the blackness of the store, slamming the screen-door and swearing insincerely. "Take the whole sidewalk, why don't you." Christy fancied she heard half a laugh.

Then at the steps of St. Adalbert the Inconvenient parish Lulu began yapping and Christy saw Joseph and a few other men emerging from the basement. One held a furled banner on a long pole, fringed with gold braid and decked with iron-on appliqué. There was a man in the background who, she thought, resembled Clark Gable, and one who looked a bit like General Custer. Perhaps it was the uniform--they were all wearing uniforms, something like a Pullman conductor without his watch or the Keystone Cops without their hats. It was anachronistic enough to almost blend in, and not the oddest thing she'd seen in Seattle. Joseph looked up and away, uncomfortable in his blue serge collar. He nodded.
"Hey, everyone matches!" Christy said.
"Not bad for the first meeting of the season," Joseph said flatly, readjusting a basted-on epaulette. "A sort of fraternal organization."
"Okay, lodge night--but you can't well hold a bachelor party in the basement of a Catholic church. Or can you? Would you get to say a blessing for the sins you're about to commit?" she asked, laughing.
Joseph bristled. "Not how it works, Christy--" He said Christy the way most people would say cyanide or Osama bin Laden. "There's a need for what we are doing here because of--"
"Oh, so there's no beer."
"Why is this funny?"
"Don't know. Why are you avoiding eye contact while dressed like Friar Tuck stole Buster Keaton's clothes?"
Joseph thought and a thousand fighting sentences boiled to the front of his mind. He opened his mouth, shut it again, fought off a flippant reply to flippancy. In a half second he had planned and delivered a philippic. He looked at the street lamp across the way. "Hell," he said, and walked over to his friends who had gathered off to the side away from unwanted human contact.
"Who was that?" asked someone.
The awkwardness broke when a sagging Toyota drew up at the curb, "Office Machines Serviced" brushed on the side. The engine backfired and cut out and the driver, painfully thin with enamel paint and filth ground into the cuffs of his shirt, got out. Christy smiled, but he looked away pretending to adjust a spidery pair of wire spectacles. He unloaded three heavy boxes from the trunk.
"Parcel here for a Joseph--"
"That's me."
"Sign here and here." They signed & shook hands. "Brother laser-jet printer, enough toner to last six months, and the fliers for the Claritas meetings--and the certificate for the Texas chapter."
"Be nice to get a letter from the Texas chapter," Joseph said bitterly.
"Well, tell them their wife is in the pound for biting people, someone wrecked the dog, and the house ran off with a traveling salesman," said the repairman. "Not funny? OK."
"It's one of those days."
"Don't let the bastards get you down." He kicked the tire of the car. "I guess I need to finish my route."
Neither one of them is making eye contact, Christy thought, watching them. She could have voiced the encounter like David Attenborough.
"Shut that damn dog up," the driver muttered, getting back in the car and fighting the lever into neutral. Christy realized Lulu had been barking at the top of her doggy lungs the whole time and that she had blocked it out. "Not everyone loves that yap-yap-yap."
"Excuse me?"
The driver again ignored her. The arches of the church in the background formed a sort of Renaissance triptych: Joseph, short and bespectacled and roundfaced on the sidewalk, sainted by the Gothic arch of the front door, and on the other side the thin drawn face of the mechanic. The Corolla shook itself into first gear and ground painfully away from the curb in a cloud of greasy smoke, a suitable exit for a medieval demon in a rolling Hell-mouth of a morality play. And this put Christy where in the altarpiece? Center, bottom left, with tiny yapping dog--the finely dressed wealthy donor, painted very small and very serious, a figure with no halo but the potential for one, enigma for history and lost in the present.

Joseph did not speak to her. He and his friends had gone by now, taking the parcels with them. Christy wondered whether or not to try texting him but the veil of the great difference stayed inviolate.

"Nuts!" she explained. And the day had lost some of the luster and it was already growing a trifle cold.


I patterned a lot of these people after some of the folks I would meet after Latin Mass on Saturdays, most of whom were almost certainly autistic and who were also the reason I have had issues with the Church's people. (Anti-Semitic comments from the priest and support of Fascist Spain have been omitted as those were local color.) Nobody is presented perfect so--if everyone is flawed, everyone's character can develop. (Including Joseph who may just be very confused by Christy goofing off. This lets that whole Claritas thing end up as actually providing clarity--bad pun; I love bad puns--when they find out about the whole autism thing.) But I feel like Joseph & co. are dreadfully pedantic. Not necessarily inaccurate, but hard for reading long term.

So I wrote everybody with a little bit of ugly in them, and there's got to be a little bit of good in people that intense. Anyway, just a trial run with the idea I mentioned earlier of showing this stuff through interactions and the actual characters themselves. The drafts felt very two-dimensional and reminded me (through ultra-symbolic names, heavy didactic tone, parochial aesthetic) more of "The Last Fisherman" which is already in print. Good news, it's a Catholic novel. Bad news, it's the second worst novel I've ever read, the first worst being "Empress Theresa," and nominations for third place open.

I don’t mind criticism, (and would actually really appreciate grammatical criticism) I just care for criticism that’s unrelated and in which other aspects of myself are read-in through those unrelated criticisms. Interesting suggestion I’ll certainly take it into consideration. But right now I’m going to bed, I was able to finish part of chapter 4 before it got real late and my notes app started acting-up for some reason, hopefully the latter part won’t take too long and I can go straight for chapter 5; and then of course go back re-edit all of this with these new suggestions in mind.

 

[Greatshield17]

Christy finished her bagel and fed the last bite to Lulu, then watched the pigeons as she drank the last of her morning coffee. Putting her papers back in her handbag she paid the check and slipped a healthy tip under her plate for the waitress. If life was going to be full of surprises, she thought, then perhaps she could ensure that they were good ones. And Maisie was going to be off for maternity leave eventually so the right tips could almost be a miniature baby shower.

Taking Lulu's leash she walked down past the other café, the one that served hot coffee but had ice-cold staff. The day was too warm to think of work much, and since she had gotten that out of the way there was no need to hurry back to the office as usual. Beautiful sun, beautiful people--even the iridescence on the bobbing necks of pigeons in the gutter stood out brighter and --
"Walking here!"
"Sorry!"
The nameless balding man who ran the hardware store stayed mad all the time but it was impossible to be mad at him for long. He piled the stack of rakes at the door and "swept" Christy further along the sidewalk. She turned back and smiled. A corner of his mouth creased which was about as much smiling as he did in a month and he disappeared into the blackness of the store, slamming the screen-door and swearing insincerely. "Take the whole sidewalk, why don't you." Christy fancied she heard half a laugh.

Then at the steps of St. Adalbert the Inconvenient parish Lulu began yapping and Christy saw Joseph and a few other men emerging from the basement. One held a furled banner on a long pole, fringed with gold braid and decked with iron-on appliqué. There was a man in the background who, she thought, resembled Clark Gable, and one who looked a bit like General Custer. Perhaps it was the uniform--they were all wearing uniforms, something like a Pullman conductor without his watch or the Keystone Cops without their hats. It was anachronistic enough to almost blend in, and not the oddest thing she'd seen in Seattle. Joseph looked up and away, uncomfortable in his blue serge collar. He nodded.
"Hey, everyone matches!" Christy said.
"Not bad for the first meeting of the season," Joseph said flatly, readjusting a basted-on epaulette. "A sort of fraternal organization."
"Okay, lodge night--but you can't well hold a bachelor party in the basement of a Catholic church. Or can you? Would you get to say a blessing for the sins you're about to commit?" she asked, laughing.
Joseph bristled. "Not how it works, Christy--" He said Christy the way most people would say cyanide or Osama bin Laden. "There's a need for what we are doing here because of--"
"Oh, so there's no beer."
"Why is this funny?"
"Don't know. Why are you avoiding eye contact while dressed like Friar Tuck stole Buster Keaton's clothes?"
Joseph thought and a thousand fighting sentences boiled to the front of his mind. He opened his mouth, shut it again, fought off a flippant reply to flippancy. In a half second he had planned and delivered a philippic. He looked at the street lamp across the way. "Hell," he said, and walked over to his friends who had gathered off to the side away from unwanted human contact.
"Who was that?" asked someone.
The awkwardness broke when a sagging Toyota drew up at the curb, "Office Machines Serviced" brushed on the side. The engine backfired and cut out and the driver, painfully thin with enamel paint and filth ground into the cuffs of his shirt, got out. Christy smiled, but he looked away pretending to adjust a spidery pair of wire spectacles. He unloaded three heavy boxes from the trunk.
"Parcel here for a Joseph--"
"That's me."
"Sign here and here." They signed & shook hands. "Brother laser-jet printer, enough toner to last six months, and the fliers for the Claritas meetings--and the certificate for the Texas chapter."
"Be nice to get a letter from the Texas chapter," Joseph said bitterly.
"Well, tell them their wife is in the pound for biting people, someone wrecked the dog, and the house ran off with a traveling salesman," said the repairman. "Not funny? OK."
"It's one of those days."
"Don't let the bastards get you down." He kicked the tire of the car. "I guess I need to finish my route."
Neither one of them is making eye contact, Christy thought, watching them. She could have voiced the encounter like David Attenborough.
"Shut that damn dog up," the driver muttered, getting back in the car and fighting the lever into neutral. Christy realized Lulu had been barking at the top of her doggy lungs the whole time and that she had blocked it out. "Not everyone loves that yap-yap-yap."
"Excuse me?"
The driver again ignored her. The arches of the church in the background formed a sort of Renaissance triptych: Joseph, short and bespectacled and roundfaced on the sidewalk, sainted by the Gothic arch of the front door, and on the other side the thin drawn face of the mechanic. The Corolla shook itself into first gear and ground painfully away from the curb in a cloud of greasy smoke, a suitable exit for a medieval demon in a rolling Hell-mouth of a morality play. And this put Christy where in the altarpiece? Center, bottom left, with tiny yapping dog--the finely dressed wealthy donor, painted very small and very serious, a figure with no halo but the potential for one, enigma for history and lost in the present.

Joseph did not speak to her. He and his friends had gone by now, taking the parcels with them. Christy wondered whether or not to try texting him but the veil of the great difference stayed inviolate.

"Nuts!" she explained. And the day had lost some of the luster and it was already growing a trifle cold.

I am coming up with ideas regarding this now, I’ll see how I add this into chapter 1, once I’ve finished chapters 4 & 5, perhaps I’ll share these on the thread as well.

 

[Greatshield17]

Apologies for any shoddy grammar, here's chapter 4, is almost done. And yes, Lulu is now a character, the only character without a symbolic name. (Unless of course I think of one.)

Spoiler: Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Awake at Night

Paula did indeed feel ‘that’ later, she felt well throughout the afternoon and evening and into the night where she lay awake in bed. But fortunately that same conversion provided with a lot to think about, which she used to try and wash and scrub the embarrassment away, and thus as lied there awake in her bed, she was yet again, staring at the medal Christy gave her.

REGINA SINE LABE ORIGINALI CONCEPTA, ORA PRO NOBIS

These words were engraved around the medal upon which Mary was stamped. Paula a handful of Latin words, as her interest in chemistry led her to come across many words in Latin and Greek, but she couldn’t quite decipher what the words on this medal said,

‘Originali concepta’ sounds like ‘Original Conception,’ or perhaps ‘conceived from origin.’ And I think ‘Regina’ means Queen? Or maybe it means ‘Kingdom…’

Paula strained her brain trying to guess what the words could mean, but all she could draw was a blank. She relaxed her mind’s eye and tried to look back on the subject of Theology and religion as a whole.

Catholicism… That was the religion that this medal referred, it was crafted completely form the beliefs and worldview of this religion, so she focused in on this particular religion and all that it contained,

But there are so many issues I have with it… she thought, the role of women, the teachings on sex, the strict-ness in general…

Unpleasant images and thoughts entered her mind as she imagined what she considered the Catholic Church to be like, and how people like her might be treated. After having those images swirl in her mind for a bit, a thought occurred to her that brought her back where her thoughts were before,

I still don’t even know if God exists. I also kind of don’t know why I’m wondering about this… Still, I guess I should be thinking about this… Right?

Paula tried to focus, she did, ultimately think, or perhaps felt that this question was important, she felt it dishonest to ignore something that seemed so important and go on with life as though it didn’t matter. Yet at the same time choosing one way or the other simply ignores the problems with that position simply because one wanted one position to be true and the other false.

As Paula’s mind probed this area of thoughts and questions, the memory of what Christy had said and she responded came back to the surface,

But, we can’t live like that. We can’t live without morality being a real thing; and God being there to make morality real.

That’s just it, God and morality can only exist because that works for us; not regardless of what we think or feel about the matter. Our feelings about how things should or should not work or be shouldn’t play into this, either God is real or He isn’t; things are either right or wrong because they are right or wrong, not because we want them to be right or wrong, or it’s easier for us for them to be right or wrong.

The medal vanished beneath Paula’s clenched fist she slowly brought to her forehead in embarrassment,

I hope I didn’t sound like a heartless jerk when I said that!!!

She lightened her grip and let her hand rest softly on her face, she paused with her thoughts, waiting for the emotions of embarrassment to dull, then she tried to carefully examine the thoughts involved in what she had said, without re-living the embarrassment of what had happened,

That is a key problem in all of this though, especially with organized religions like Catholicism; how much is real, and how much is just us human beings trying to make reality feel normal and understandable? I mean yes, God is Love, and I guess He’ll try to make Himself understandable to us; but even any fire & brimstone preaching Christian will tell you, that God doesn’t make things all rosy & gumdrops and the like.

She considered all this for a moment and then thought, Assuming of course that God even exists.

She sighed, and turned over in her bed. On the other side of the room there she had a large poster on the wall that showed the table of elements, obscured of course, by the darkness. On a small book shelf beneath the table, there were four objects standing on top of the book shelf, a couple of mineral rocks, a crystal jar full of water, a cloud-shaped air-filled foil balloon on a stick in a jar, and a plasma lamp turned-off for the night. These four objects were of course meant to represent the four states of matter.

Paula stared at her decor, for a bit, then went back to her internal debate,

It keeps going back to that doesn’t it? I keep going in circles with this and in the end, it keeps coming back to the one question, does God really exist?

***

Joseph was standing downstairs in his dark kitchen, not in his pajamas, (though not in his Claritan uniform either) his teeth mint-less and unbrushed, and his troubled mind, still focused on the conversation he was having on the landline, despite being aware of his need to retire for the night. He was speaking with his father Charles, on the phone and more or less venting all that had happened today,

“So yeah, in the end we’re going to do nothing, that’s what Jonathan said.”

“I see,” Charles voice replied through the landline, “well, I’m quite sure Jonathan knows what’s best in this situation, if you can’t do anything you can’t do anything. You shouldn’t sweat about it too much, it’s not worth your agony.”

Joseph turned his head to the right, he found himself staring at his stainless steel fridge, illuminated by the ambient light of his unlit house. On his fridge were a bunch of magnets and pictures held-up by magnets, they display similar yet odd motifs to the eyes of anyone visiting Joseph’s house, some were Scottish in nature, as Joseph McClean was of Scottish descent, others bared Québécois themes, as Joseph’s wife was the daughter of French Canadian immigrants. Yet more foreign to the eyes of anyone visiting the McClean’s household were magnets and images displaying themes of geography and topography, which he himself was fascinated with, (indeed as he stood there, staring at his fridge, his eyes had fixated in one magnet that was a miniature map of his home state of Massachusetts) and weather phenomena, which his wife had an interest in.

“I’m just worried,” Joseph said quietly, continuing his conversation, “Jonathan himself pointed out that we’re less than a year old. The Church is in a state of decline, under attack from both without and within, and here we are doing nothing to change the tide!”

“Nonsense!” His father replied, you’ve people have done great right from the get-go! You’ve helped our community a lot!”

Joseph said nothing, still doubting things.

“Look I guess with you guys it doesn’t seem like much,” Charles continued, “but I can assure you that your group has been a great boost for our parish and our community. We’re very grateful to have you around!”

Joseph thought about this for awhile,

“I guess…” he said, “I do know that success in our own souls is all that matters in the end. And yet.. And yet I help but think about what’s happening in the world and feel like things wouldn’t be so bad if we truly give it our ‘110%’ as they say.”

“Well Monica herself said the only thing that stops prayer, that extinguishes it’s grace, is other peoples’ refusal to be moved by it,” Charles replied, “ you really shouldn’t be blaming yourself for other people’s mistakes and bad behaviour, they define you. We’re defined by our own virtues and vices not others’, only we can make ourselves jump off those proverbial cliffs.”

“I guess you’re right,” said Joseph, “a wise woman, Monica, although I guess she knows that because it’s happened with her herself , she’s changed a lot since last year.”

“So have you son, we all have!” Said Charles, “see you don’t see how much good the Lord has done for our parish and community, there’s so much good that has happened between 2016 and now!”

“I see,” said Jonathan, “yes change does not stop, we either change ourselves for the better or let others change us for the worse.”


Chapter 5: One Of Us

 

[Gerontius]

Personally my advice would be to write a book that is readable first--a good novel--and then see if it works with your idea. It may not--doesn't make it a bad book. In fact I'd say it may make it a better book! You've got people, an interest in your own project, a setting, the unusual backdrop of what is basically a weird little parish sodality on steroids (People write novels taking place in coffee shops and offices and the foot plates of locomotives. Why not some tiny little-known fraternal organization?)

But everyone with a reasonable command of English and the disciple, I repeat discipline to learn the craft of writing, can write an excellent novel. It is storytelling. The human is a natural born storyteller.

Funny thing about novels, they go places you don't expect. If they're written to push a point they often aren't very good (case in point, Upton Sinclair's Wide are the Gates. Sinclair was a Socialist, and since that is almost a religion in its own right, he is incredibly preachy. It's a WWII novel where the hero is this awesome guy going around Europe like a 1940s version of James Bond kicking Nazi's asses all over Europe. But even with that, it still is terrible, not only because he still gets time to squeeze in a few yacht races and other hoity-toity bits of fluff.)

So... Why is it terrible? Not because it's socialist. A good socialist book means you don't have to agree with it but you can acknowledge the craftsmanship. But this one is a poorer-quality work because it's incredibly didactic. It also has spots that are incredibly tone-deaf, even for the 1940s. Pages 14 and 15 from the first edition (The Viking Press, New York) give this little gem:

This was in October of 1934, and Adolf Hitler had held power in Germany for not quite two years. He was the man who dominated Lanny Budd's thoughts; he was the new center of reaction in Europe, dangerous not merely because of his fanaticism, but also because he had in his hands the industrial power of Germany and was proceeding to turn it into military power. "It isn't only what he has done to the Jews," said the art expert. "He has done things much worse to the Socialists and to the whole labor movement in the Fatherland, but you don't hear so much about it in the capitalist press of France."

Well--I have a hard time taking a socialist novel seriously when its protagonist is a wealthy heir, but -- even though this is 1934, before the Kristallnacht,still it just reads very poorly--like "special-interest group playing victim." (And the book was written in 1943...) It has peak Marjorie Taylor Greene energy which is very odd indeed for a socialist novel. It sounds a bit like a persecution fetish. I've skipped the ultra-dramatic titles of the chapters, but with names like "Indoctus Pauperium Pati" or "When Duty Whispers", "Perils Did Abound" or "The Way to Dusty Death" -- It's a mess.
Also, the title is a Scripture quotation, interestingly enough. Sinclair paints a picture of WWII as biblical Armageddon, which is a neat parallel, but he never lets the reader forget it. And this overwrought pompous mess is something that makes the book unreadable.

I confess a certain detestation of Catholic fiction that is only equalled by my detestation of a large quantity of Catholics in the United States--the little tradlets who turned tradition into a weapon and who embody modern Donatism.

So because of that--I also collect Kathleen Norris novels which are also crap. Norris was a Catholic, and the highest paid female writer in the US during the early 20th century. She also cannot write worth a damn. In her novels, her good characters are very very good, and when they are bad they are tepid. I don't find this very gripping reading; they fit types and molds far easier than they should. Where Upton Sinclair had (by the '40s) taken to didactic stuff that lacked the character-driven punch of his older works, Kathleen Norris gives works where her characters have to carry the action, but they are not fit to do it. We get paper dolls instead of people. But this is a key component of chick lit and that's how it works out.

(Further contrast of Norris & Sinclair--you can see on the Wikipedia entry for Norris a picture of her giving the Bellamy salute. Yep, an American Fascist.)

Everyone in the Catholic publishing world is so caught up with the idea of truth in fiction that they sound less like Leon Bloy and more like Tucker Carlson. Not a good look on anybody. The more someone yells of truth the less one is inclined to trust them.

Personally--I think you run the risk of pulling a Sinclair or a Norris, by building An Appeal to Heaven as advertising for a movement or something. And honestly, I still think the "Common Lapsarian" stuff is not only utter bullcrap but also harmful to the cause you're promoting. But if you're looking to use it, then maybe work it in as the views of one of your characters. Make it where the reader can form his own ideas on it--as a viable means of approach, or the crotchet of a mind that definitely thinks outside the box, or something that is really confusing but which helps some people more than others (and I will leave it at that.) Build a novel first independent of a movement.

 

[Gerontius]

Forgot to say one other thing; the first novel I wrote took me five years to write and I'd like to have taken two more. Don't rush it. "Editing" is the wrong mentality; the old way of writing drafts is better. You'll rewrite and revise as you rewrite. This stuff is not near as easy as it seems--and the rules of formal composition make a great little framework to build on. This is why I still use a manual typewriter for all this stuff; editing is nonsense in the early drafts because you can't make a silk purse out of the sow's ear. I've even taken up lately writing the things with a fountain pen because the typewriter was too fast, then typing the second draft because the pen was too slow. Getting off the computer and out of the Internet world is a must for creativity.

The other good way to learn to write a novel is to read very good novels. Waugh, Chesterton, Dickens, Reppelier--Not bad. Agatha Christie's work is accessible and straightforward, believe it or not. Sinclair Lewis wrote very perceptive novels--try Main Street. That has a lot in it for anyone. Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Maya Angelou, tons of modern writers -- For characters go get Tennessee Williams' The Glass Menagerie and read it cover to cover. Then read it again. There are more and there are others. You will want to write interesting characters; try reading Thomas Merton's The Seven Storey Mountain basically whenever you get a chance. Absolutely vivid writing and it's pretty great. Nonfiction autobiography but a story is a story and you want to tell one, so hey. And never, ever neglect the study of poetry.

I started one novel a long time ago and it was some apocalyptic religious ******** seventy pages long and I threw it out. Had some other stuff. That I went & set on fire. Then I sat around testing stuff and eventually hit on the idea of -- instead of writing an idea-- asking myself a big question. So I asked a question, and had a small setting of characters in mind mirroring people I've seen in similar situations. I never put real people in books; it's not decent manners. Even those I strongly dislike I leave out. It's my books; why do I want those twits in it. Attempting to answer the question meant I wrote a ton of muddled-up drafts, then one polished one, which I polished again & gave to all my friends. Then it went into print.


Might be ten years before I write something that I feel like sharing; I don't share my work much any more because I put enough of my soul into it and most people take & wipe their arses with it. In the interest of perpetuating the toilet paper shortage of 2020, they are not permitted my notebooks.