“He whose walk is blameless, and who does what is righteous, who speaks the truth from his heart and has no slander on his tongue, who does his neighbor no wrong and casts no slur on his fellowman, who despises a vile man but honors those who fear the Lord, who keeps his oath, even when it hurts, who lends his money without usury and does not accept a bribe against the innocent. He who does these things will never be shaken.” -Psalm 15:2-5
The first rain of Spring is here. Rain falls as I type this, in fact; blissfully penetrating the earth, and bringing everything up green. That, combined with an article I read recently describing the many things that rhubarb can defeat (anxiety and insomnia, to name two), and as I remembered the rhubarb plant that grows disregarded beside our patio, I was unexpectedly and irresistibly bitten by the gardening bug.
Now, as a disclaimer, I am an unprofessional gardener myself, I’ve been bitten by several different bugs before, of varying sizes and types, and this particular bug, the Gardening Bug, is the sole parasite that is pleasant to be infected by.
AKA, cabin fever. Or is it cabinet fever? I can never remember.
To quote author Mark Twain: “It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want—oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!”
And while I was trudging across our yard (brown tonight, green tomorrow!), in the pouring rain with a bag full of carrots, pepper tops, strawberry stems, and the leftovers of a lettuce for twelve ravenous rabbits, I was suddenly filled with an energy that I had been missing during the long, long,
-Long, long, long, looooong-
-Winter. Opportunity. Growth. Possibilities. Energy. I saw an area outside of our garage, sadly rejected, and covered in rocks, logs, and a rather unattractive stack of fencing. I could suddenly picture dirt, beautiful, soft dirt, hidden somewhere deep underneath it all, with tomatoes, lettuces, carrots, peppers, zucchini, pumpkins, and Heaven-knows-what-else lined up on either side of a pathway. I could picture Summertime (liberated from many of the responsibilities that we love to grow from and also love to take breaks from all at the same time), with tank tops and shorts and hardly ever socks (which is where rain boots become a necessity), dancing out of the house to nip up a few tomatoes and lettuce leaves for an evening salad.
I’m not sure what it is about this picture, now firmly and somewhat stubbornly stamped into my mind, but it has quickly become an obsession, another dream of Summer.
This is a good time to introduce two of my lovely Wall of Writers friends, one of which finds great satisfaction in working hard at work worth doing (and no, it’s not Theodore Roosevelt), and another, who finds even greater satisfaction in all things green.
Have you guessed yet?
Wait, I’m still thinking.
The first: C. S. Lewis. The second: J. R. R. Tolkien. I would have normally given each writer from the Wall their own, personal post, because they deserve it, but these two gentlemen, fascinatingly enough, were best mates when they were still alive (they could still be best mates now that they’ve died; probably are, actually), and they wouldn’t hear of having it any other way. So, Lewis and Tolkien, since you insist, here you go.
Don’t look now, love, but I think your crazy might be showing a bit.
Takes one to know one, Johnny.
The enormous fan of C. S. Lewis, I suppose, is not actually myself, but my EWIP (who is, as a reminder to us all, my Editor Whom I Pay).
This just goes to show. Great minds read great books written by great people about great places with ordinary people who do great things. This is one of the pearls of writing that C. S. Lewis has taught me, among others. It's never very gratifying to read about a perfect person doing perfect things in a perfect-magical land where everything is just fine and dandy for 432 pages of ornate, long-winded, utterly useless words.
Not at all worth reading.
Now, a character (or a number of characters), who are not perfect, exemplary, and flawless, yet consistently try, fail, and try yet again to strive for their own personal quintessence is much more interesting, worthwhile, and inspiring to see. Not only is it more realistic, it is more admirable.
Consider Eustace Scrubb, for example, who is such a prat at first, and is eventually transformed into one of the most admirable of Narnian warriors.
There is a certain goodness about C. S. Lewis' Narnia series. There's a purity in the adventure, where the protagonists have good heads on their shoulders, with eyes that are open to boundless opportunities.
This was a good lesson for me, in both fictional character development, and also personal character development (which all, for me, wraps around my growth as a Great Writer).
C. S. Lewis wasn't afraid of writing at a colossal scale. We shouldn't either.
Speaking of colossal scale, J. R. R. Tolkien is one of the most fearless and dedicated writers I have ever discovered. He, alike to Lewis, created an entire world. He worked on his books, and their refinement, for his entire life. His style is sharp and exciting and detailed.
I am aware that many readers consider his writing to be a little too detailed (okay, way too detailed), and even I have to take a break from Tolkien every now and then for something a wee bit lighter (Jules Verne, for instance), but whenever I come back to Tolkien, I am reminded of what a great writer writes like (causing all of the flimsily-written novels to dim in its glow), and, above all, he is funny.
As Jim Green from Peter Hedge's The Odd Life of Timothy Green put it, "Not make fun of other people funny, or burp and fart funny." Funny in a way that makes you smile on the inside; funny that lasts.
And then, again, is Tolkien's love of the forest, and all things green, which is, in itself, enough reason to be taped onto the Wall of Writers, at least in my book.
Which is, thus far, unpublished.
Just you wait, Johnny. It's because of people, Great Writers, such as C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien that I have resources for both wonderful writing, and remarkable writers. Goodness and dedication. Knowing that what you write is important, and knowing how to write without taking yourself too seriously. A satisfying adventure and really good humor. They go together, like D'Artagnan and Constance, or Romeo and Juliette, or Eurydice and Orpheus.
Am I sensing a tragic theme?
Oh, you're right. Well, what can I say?
In closing, J. R. R. Tolkien's final advice is, "All we have to do is decide what to do with the time that is given us." And, please, always have something to write with, and something to write on. Tolkien's first line ("In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit"), on the back of one of his student's exam books one day, without even yet knowing what a hobbit was.
There are so many wonderful ideas that writers have (I know I have), that are now gone, lost forever, all because I was too overconfident, and thought that I would surely remember it by tomorrow morning. Nope.
An entire novel, and entire series, can come from a single picture (need I mention C. S. Lewis' sudden image of a faun in the snow?), so don't let yours slide away!
As for advice from C. S. Lewis, some of the best that I've read comes from a letter of advice to an American fan in 1956. Here are two of my favorite bits:
"Don't use words too big for the subject. Don't say "infinitely" when you mean "very"; otherwise you'll have no word left when you want to talk about something really infinite."
And the second:
"Never use abstract nouns when concrete ones will do. If you mean 'More people died' don't say 'Mortality rose.'"
Infinitely straightforward.
Write on! Give us something to read about
(here's some inspirational music to help).