This week I chanced upon watching the movie ‘The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society’, based on the recent bestselling novel. A relative rarity among novel forms of late, Guernsey Literary Etc. took the form of an epistolary novel, a conceit of plot and character-construction through letters from various characters. The movie version is a decent little movie; a relatively faultless evocation of a historical period, filmed mostly in charming rural locations and unscathed by any actor in it feeling a need to loudly bloviate on current social trends and controversies, at least as far as I know about.

Anyway, the epistolary novel isn’t much done these days; the last mega-huge bestseller in that form that I remember reading of my own free will was 1965’s Up The Down Staircase – a chaotic year in the life of an idealistic young schoolteacher on her first year in an interestingly dysfunctional urban school. Dysfunction then meant smoking cigarettes out behind the trash cans and dropping cherry bombs in the boys’ lavatory toilets, which seems rather charmingly retro, in comparison to present-day open riot in the hallways and violent assault in the classroom. Staircase was also made into a movie starring Sandy Dennis.

But the epistolary form was once overwhelmingly popular, especially in the 18th century. What has been accepted as the first-ever novel in English, Samuel Richardson’s Pamela; Or Virtue Rewarded established the form. That novel began as a series of template letters, newly-literate, newly-well-to-do gentlemen and ladies, for the use of, only Richardson wished to incorporate moral lessons in the template letters and so created a narrative and characters to hang the letters upon. Pamela turned out to be so wildly popular on that merit that Richardson followed it with another such, even longer and more operatic: Clarissa Or the History of a Young Lady. This featured a young woman of imperishable virtue and her moral victory over a scheming vile seducer, who was not above kidnapping, drugging and rape of the heroine. This was also made into a miniseries in 1991, with Sean Bean as the vile seducer. He dies in the end, as is his customary habit in most (not all) movies and miniseries episodes in which he appears.

There are advantages to telling a story thusly; it is outright fun for a writer to basically create a character monolog and put on another voice and style, for however long or short – and sometimes very short. I’ve done a partial-epistolary in My Dear Cousin, and incorporated letters from characters in some of my other books. (TruckeeThe Adelsverein TrilogyThat Fateful Lightning.) It’s also an excellent means of incorporating a necessary info-dump or inserting a shorter account of what would be a tediously lengthy scene or account of a necessary sequence if done in full narration. There is scope for a modern version, with emails, memos-for-record, messages and blog posts, so the format is not exhausted by any means.

There are some disadvantages to writing a completely epistolary novel; it is all a sequence of monologues, and with a good writer, the character voice of every letter-writing character ought to be distinctive, differentiated from each other on the page. Given that not many scribblers of letters are given to write like a reporter, descriptions and conversations are … often sketchy, and more implied than actually included verbatim. I suspect that totally epistolary novels must be carefully planned and plotted in advance so as to be certain of including every necessary detail. The other disadvantage shows up more clearly in novels like Richardson’s Clarissa, wherein a five-minute long incident or conversation becomes the basis for a pages-long letter describing it in exhaustive detail. A brief sliver of action is measured off in yards, and yards and yards of verbiage which would have taken hours to write, giving one to wonder if these characters really did anything without a ream of paper in one hand, and an inkpot and pen in the other to memorialize the moment, rather like 18th century verbal selfie.
Discuss as you will – what other interesting epistolary or semi-epistolary novels are out there today?

Wee Jamie, the wonder grandson, has a whole room full of toys – and most of them have not been purchased by an indulgent grandparent, but rather his mother, who revels in thrift stores and invariably emerges from the premises, triumphantly bearing a rather choice item that she got for a relative pittance. Such as the collections of originally high-end Coach or Dooney & Burke handbags which she bought here and there for $5-25 dollars which are valued on EBay for about four times that, or more. Seriously, I think the guy at the local luggage, shoe and handbag repair place wants to follow her into one of these emporiums, just to get a handle on how she manages to spot the good stuff. This is the woman who picked up a pair of earrings out of the 1$ bin of costume jewelry at a booth at the Blanco monthly market and had them turn out to be real emeralds and 18 carat gold.

Anyway, she buys Fisher-Price Little People sets for Wee Jamie, and the one which he currently loves the most – or which he plays with the most often – is the jungle adventure set. There are a number of buttons on it, which elicit a chirpy voice telling the kids about how neato wild animals are, and suggesting short, happy, and helpful encounters with the jungle critters: one suggests that a hippo will helpfully carry you across the river, and the  other that a chimpanzee will share bananas with you if you are hungry. Talk about fantasies … in real-no-kidding jungle wilderness, hippos are horribly dangerous (being large, nearsighted and hostile) and chimpanzees are vicious and murderous primates several times stronger than the average male of our species.

And in fact, bears are not cuddly, friendly creatures either, so WHY do we give children stuffed bears to play with and give them the notion that a thousand-pound brown bear is Christopher Robin’s silly friend Pooh? I know – fantasy, and story-telling, which is all very nice in it’s place, but it would be nice if at some point we got more realistic about wildlife to our offspring generally. Look, it’s not just Australia where all the wildlife is planning to kill humans. The larger mammals in the rest of the world are, especially the big carnivorous ones with lots of claws and sharp teeth. We are tasty and made of meat, and even the larger herbivores can be hazardous to humans, as every park ranger working our popular wilderness parks can attest. The rank stupidity of park visitors who have to be warned against trying to pet the buffalo or park their children close to the wandering bear to get that perfect photo shot has not been exaggerated. There is a reason such people are dubbed “tourons.”

Thus endeth the lessen for today. I wonder if the jungle adventure Little People toy can be reprogrammed to say something like “The hippo is huge, stupid and dangerous – build yourself a canoe” and “The chimpanzee will not share – he’s rip your face off, so pick your own banana.”

22. May 2025 · Comments Off on Recollections of the Newsmaking Machinery · Categories: Memoir, Random Book and Media Musings

This blog entry by another author reminded me irresistibly of the period in late 1978 when there was a considerable turnover in the Vatican – in that a long-serving Pope passed away of more or less natural causes, followed by the usual ceremonies, followed again by the lengthy ceremonial ritual of the college of cardinals selecting and installing another pontiff. All these occurrences made for considerable news coverage through our network lead station, FEN-Tokyo, and some inadvertent hilarity on my part, listening to one of their staff announcers (owner of a magnificent resonant speaking voice and the most vacant skull ever recorded in the possession of an AFRTS broadcast specialist) repeatedly mangle the phrase “papal encyclical” in news releases. There was a good reason – several volumes of them, actually – that this broadcaster was famed as “The Ted Baxter of the Far East Network. He was a legend in his time…

Lo and behold, after  weeks of noting all these stories out of the Vatican (it was a very dull period with regard to major news developments in international news, I think) … Pope John Paul I passed away after barely three weeks and change in office. (The shortest Papacy on record, it seems – even counting some of the very earliest in the times of Roman persecution or later corrupt Renaissance shenanigans.) One of my NCO supervisors mused, “I guess the excitement was too much for him,” while my friend Marsh wailed despairingly, “You know what this means?! Another month of Dead Pope!!”

15. May 2025 · Comments Off on Art With a Capital-A · Categories: Uncategorized

The topic of art came up on a long discussion thread at Sarah Hoyt’s blog the other day, when another commenter posted a YouTube video explaining why the late painter Thomas Kinkade was at once so despised by art world professionals and yet so very popular among people who bought the prints of his paintings. I posted my own opinion, when the thread made a side turn into a discussion of what ordinary people chose to put on their walls to contemplate daily – and that was that Kinkade painted pictures that were popular with the consuming public and that he made a mint at doing so, commercially. This is apparently not the point of art, according to the professional art world. Art with a capital A ought to challenge, mystify, or discombobulate the public, and either the filthy rich or the government ought to pay for it … not the uneducated and unappreciative rubes who merely fork out their tax dollars for public art which looks like bronze or cement turds, an engorged lower colon, a pile of scrap metal or an overweight woman about to throw a performative tantrum in a fast-food establishment.

So – goopy painted landscapes of gardens, thatched cottages, lighthouses by the ocean, pretty churches with light shining out of stained glass windows, and misty cityscapes adorned with little flecks of suspiciously fluorescent paint are just … too crassly contemptable for words in the eyes of critics who think a banana duct-taped to a wall and the  artists unnamed bed are just the ticket to fame and fortune in the official art world. That Thomas Kinkade made a bomb of money appealing to the masses is an unbearable insult to the Capital A-art crowd.

It’s just that most of us really don’t care to play the multi-million-dollar Capital-A-art money-laundering game. We don’t buy something to put on the wall to impress our friends with having spent a bomb on something that we suspect is just part of a scam, anyway. We don’t want to be challenged, or baffled or lectured every time we look at the stuff on our walls: we’d much rather have something pleasant, comforting, or even inspiring to look at. The commenters who participated in that side-thread all had things that they liked on the walls of their personal space: paintings and drawings inherited from artistic family members, things they had done themselves, or purchased from local artists they liked. I have a collection of prints that I bought as an impoverished junior airman in Japan; prints by a mildly renown mid-century artist, Toshi Yoshida. I loved them for the colors, and the traditional look of the scenes that he did: gardens, landscapes, city scenes. All very restful, and to me, aesthetically pleasing. I bought most of them unframed and at a bare-bones price, from a vendor who appeared from Tokyo once a month at the bazaar sponsored by the wives’ clubs. I did splurge and bought two of them framed – views of mountain country, covered in snow, with tree-branches piled in fluffy white, and pale blue shadows reflecting just what a snowy countryside looked like to me. Later, after I had spent a year in Greenland, I brought the unframed ones to a local art-framer that Mom knew, and we picked out individual mats for each and framed them all in museum-quality glass and simple wood frames. I am still not tired of looking at them. Should the house ever catch fire, after Wee Jamie, my daughter and the cats, if I had time enough for rescuing anything else, I would grab my Yoshida prints.

 

09. May 2025 · Comments Off on The Fun of Primary Historical Sources · Categories: Memoir, Old West, Random Book and Media Musings

I am working like a busy little literary beaver on the second of the YA frontier western series, the Kettering Family chronicles. I thought from the first to make the main and viewpoint character always a tween or teen, but making it a series and having the story romp over twenty years of interesting pre-civil war events in the various gold and silver rushes while still maintaining the viewpoint of a teen or tween. The work-around for that challenge means that now each book is planned to focus on the adventures and characters of consecutive Kettering children…

Anyway, the main character in the work in progress is Sally Kettering’s little brother Jon, and the early and curious days of the California gold rush. It appears as if the plot will keep the family in Sacramento. Which will be a nice change for me, as Sacramento is one of the places where I lived in real life. Only for a single year as it turned out – but I did enjoy the heck out of living there, visiting Old Town and the Railway Museum, as well as actually traveling up into the gold rush country – Coloma and Placerville – a couple of times. (To Truckee and Lake Tahoe, as well, if only briefly.) California was a livable, interesting, affordable and relatively sane place to live in once upon a time, so I have those recollections and local specific knowledge to draw upon.

But the other element is – old local histories. I have found a couple on Googlebooks, scanned and collected volumes retrieved from dusty and unfrequented and likely deserted library stacks. The closer in time to events recorded, is all the better for my purposes. Also, the more unfocused and gossipy is even better, for that becomes precious little nuggets, bits and bobs and curious personalities which make for a more authentic read, once carefully worked into my own narrative. I downloaded and read about a dozen 19th century Civil War women’s memoirs for That Fateful Lightning, even though I had a goodly number of professional modern historians’ references. It’s the same with this book – those chatty, rambling, first-hand accounts are pure gold.