"As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another." -Proverbs 27:17
"He who loves a pure heart, and whose speech is gracious, will have a king for his friends." -Proverbs 22:11
All of my writers on the Wall of Writers speak to me, in some form or another, but only one of them sings.
They all give advice, of course (sometimes too much advice), and speak more clearly than others, some quite often, and seemingly on their own accord (If you can wrap your mind around that, congratulations, you may be able to read and enjoy Madeline L' Engle's A Wind in the Door, instead of feeling confused, like my EWIP). But I digress.
Not only do my writers speak to me, they shout across the room at me (wondering why I am sleeping and not writing), they shout at each other, the cry bitterly, they laugh hysterically, they argue (some creative name-calling might ensue). In short, it's a very noisy world, my world of writing.
Lewis Carroll (or Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, depending on who asks), never really looks me in the eye. He's always busy reading, or writing, or staring off into space, contemplating some fantastic math problem, or designing a clever limerick.
He doesn't often interact with the other writers, either. He's quiet, yet there is a thunderous symphony inside of him, that's almost constantly re-orchestrating itself, twisting, falling, gliding, and flying. And every now and then, while I'm writing (often late at night), there will a be very soft humming that appears in the back of my mind, or a whispered voice that says, Are you certain that's how it should be?
That's creepy.
Perhaps to some, though Lewis Carroll has rescued me more than once from making a terrible error. In many ways, he's a lot like me (or perhaps I'm a lot like him, since he is about 186 years older then I am): shy amongst his own peers, constantly trying to start over, and do better as a person and a writer, slightly mad, and extremely entranced at the prospect of good writing.
Sometimes, when I'm forgetting who I am, or what is good, or which way I should be walking, it's useful to have another like-minded writer, who is content with quietly sitting beside me. It's settling, and refocusing.
And, actually, without him, my own book wouldn't be in existence right now.
What? Why have I never heard of this alarming bit of information before?
I'll explain the best that I can. When I began writing this novel, ages and ages ago, the first thing I really had in my mind were two names: Victoria and Margret. The rest of the story inevitably (though with difficulties), followed. But one character, one of the most important, wasn't there. Horatio.
Horatio Hadewych (he has several other names, but you can read about those in my book), is the eccentric librarian who lives in Swordouminipidity (the library is a hallow mountain which Horatio whittled out himself).
As I once wrote in my memorandum, each and every character in my book holds a part of who I am.
Even you, Johnny.
Well I'm flattered. I think.
And Horatio was very important, because he, in essence, is the part of me that hardly anyone ever sees. My inner thoughts, unconsciousness, and dreams. Without him, there was no soul in my story. And that is lethal for unfinished novels.
There was a library, mind you, and it was in a mountain (the Swordouminipidity library has always been a mountain), and there was, in fact, a librarian. His name was George. He had glasses, and bushy eyebrows, and a wore a colorful bow-tie. With him, I limped along, without even noticing that I was limping. What I hadn't realized was that, unlike all of my other characters, I didn't have any connections with George. He was simply a fill-in-the-blank that I had filled. George (as nice as his intentions were), was dragging my book into the same path that all of my other novel attempts had gone.
Nonexistence?
Precisely. Whenever there's something in a novel that doesn't have enough purpose, it diminishes the reasons for writing said novel. Without reasons, there is no purpose. And without purpose, there is no inspiration. Without inspiration, there is no writing The librarian was such a vital part of my story, though I hadn't seen it at the time. Therefore, my story was dying.
This is where Lewis Carroll steps in.
I saw that one coming!
I had been reading Alice's Adventures in Wonderland for a long time already.When my Mama was overseas, she came back armed with lots of beautiful, London editions. Her Alice copies had John Tenniel's wonderful illustrations, which had always infatuated me. I was the one who especially treasured those particular pieces of literature, when my Mom decided to share them (my sisters mostly considered it to be slightly eldritch), and I never really stopped reading them. There was something about the odd, off-kilter world, and Carroll's witty writing that I eagerly absorbed. Sylvie and Bruno eventually followed suit, as one of the London books were a complete collection. I read, and read, and as the years went by it became apparent that the more you read and the longer time goes by with the same author, the stronger your relationship with that author becomes.
So when my book was dying due to a librarian epidemic, there must have been something about it that made Lewis Carroll look up from his book (a rare occurrence), and stare me in the eyes.
Horatio soon followed. It is difficult to say who he is more like, myself, or Lewis Carroll. You can see hints of the Mad Hatter in his appearance (a top hat, for example, though there are no fractions poking out of the brim), but that is more of the Lewis Carroll that was put into the Hatter. And, since Lewis and I are so like-minded in so many ways, there is some Lewis Carroll that was put into the Hatter that helped inspire Horatio.
Horatio is definitely not a portrayal of the Hatter. If anything, they could be second cousins, but that is about it. But when Horatio did appear (there is a sketch I made of him, one a scrap of paper, glaring off into the whiteness of his papery world), there was a powerful force that came with him, a thunderous symphony, which clamored on the inside and out. Thus, a madness was released, with my mind as the lock and Lewis Carroll as the key. It was a strong enough antidote to reclaim my story, and has continued to be the beating heart that keeps everything flowing in Swordouminipidity.
I owe much to Lewis Carroll. He's there for me when I need him the most, and waits patiently when I think I don't. I continue to read, and learn, and develop as a fellow writer and friend.
Informative books about any author who is no longer (physically), alive can be tricky. I read
Douglas Fairhurst's book, The Story of Alice: Lewis Carroll and the Secret Story of Wonderland, for instance, and although it did have some interesting facts on the life of Lewis Carroll, most of the book ended up being dedicated to Fairhurst's own speculations on any possible romance between Carroll and Alice.
I take it, in short, you didn't care for his writing.
And he used the word, 'Sunny,' instead of 'Summer,' when quoting one of Lewis Carroll's poems. I know that particular poem by heart, because it was in that complete collections book from London, and I wrote it on the bathroom wall.
Oh, well. It's difficult to say what a person would actually like or dislike when they're gone. Lewis Carroll (or Charles Lutwidge Dogson, depending on who we're with), would be the writer I would most be interested in meeting, back in the 1800's. But as Lewis himself once wrote, I can't go back to yesterday - because I was a different person then.
As writers, we are many people, many characters, and we are always, always, changing, growing, learning, and becoming ever-greater, ever madder Writers.
Because, you see, Great Writers, such as Lewis Carroll, never cease to live, as long as there is someone to read his or her books. And they never cease to become even greater writers, so long as there are still words to write.
And there always are, if you know where to look.
