On this warm Spring day, my primroses are dying.
I killed them.
I really did, because I didn’t water them. And now I’m sitting calmly writing about it while their drooping leaves are draping themselves over the pots.
I should take care of my flowers.
I used to think I would be a horrible gardener, because whenever I went outside I would most likely read and not attend to the earth. At other times I think I would make a wonderful gardener, because I love feeling the dirt on my hands, and tending the flowers and herbs.
I admire people who garden. When I’m gardening, I usually think: “I wonder how many pages of such and such a book I could have covered,” or, “I wonder how much I could have written in a blogpost or a story or an essay.”
I’m sitting here writing about all my faults, all the while neglecting a comparison essay on Darwin and Marx…
There’s been a thought in my mind that I’m sure has been there for my whole life, but has been experiencing micro-evolution, and has been growing with me. It is the idea of a holistic life. I do know how to cook, I know how to write, and I know how to play piano. But I also know how to read, and that seems to send all the other things into the water. I read when I’m supposed to write, I read when I should cook, and sometimes I grow impatient when I’m playing the piano so I go read instead.
As a writer, I have become convinced of the importance of “being accomplished” as the Jane Austen prigs would say. I’m not saying that I have to know French, German and have “a general knowledge of all contemporary languages,” or that I have to play the piano incredibly well, or that I need to be able to paint screens and embroider cushions.
But I do believe in experience. I believe that experiences form the most poignant stories. That’s why true stories grip us. When Gene-Stratton Porter writes about birds, insects, and nature in fiction you appreciate it all the more because she was, in fact, a naturalist. The same goes for any author who describes the way a drawing or portrait is done, if he has a knowledge of art.
Beatrix Potter’s stories are charming because she wrote and illustrated them, and because she kept many of the animals she writes about as pets. Arthur Ransome wrote and illustrated his own works as well. And we mustn’t forget J.R.R. Tolkien, whose illustrations for the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings lend a whole new perspective into the work. They are truly beautiful, and you know that this is exactly what he wanted things to look like.
Historical literature is a wonderful thing, let me tell you. But what makes it so interesting? That the writer has knowledge enough of history to know what he’s talking about in fiction that he knows how to write. (We’re talking about the good historical fiction here, yes? Yes.)
What I’m trying to say is that fiction is always more interesting when it’s not just a romance where people talk back and forth about how they can’t live without each other. (By the way, I think that romance in literature is biblical and sometimes, depending on the context, necessary, but I think it needs to be well-mixed with other elements.) Fiction is always more interesting when there’s a law intrigue (Bleak House by Charles Dickens, for example) or when there is an art theme (A Girl With A Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevelier) or when there is historical background (Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.) But if you think about it, all these books have many, many other elements combined. In order to have a variety of characters, there must be a variety of characteristics.
Imagination is a beautiful thing, but imagination also tends to go overboard. (I always tell myself that I can’t write stories about Switzerland until I go to Switzerland… but maybe that’s beside the point.) Imagination tends to make things out to be more than they really are. The problem with mine is that it tends to blow up a circumstance—one I’ve never been in— like a balloon, and then make the character respond as I would imagine they would respond, not taking the time to see the character as a real person with their own personality.
This is why the study of life is so important to those who are going to write. I know I’ve said it before, but I like to say it again because it sounds nice and studious and thoughtful. I would like to have a general knowledge of art and drawing and painting… Then I could draft my illustrations and have some other painter who’s good at the thing paint them.
It’s always nicer reading a book where the mother is cooking something and you know that the author knew how to cook because of the way he describes the food, lovingly, in a way, and thoughtfully. He knows what he’s talking about. I’m guessing Dickens didn’t cook because the way he approaches food is rather indifferent.
Chesterton is another matter. If he didn’t know how to cook, he certainly was passionate about his food (see here Chesterton on Cheese) and that fact alone makes the meals described in his books more interesting to read about.
Then there is the aspect of music. I love music. I play piano, but not like I should. Every day I sit down to play and I think: “Good heavens, I wonder why I’m so sloppy.” I shouldn’t be surprised when I never really practice. I know enough about music, the history of music, genres, and composers to appreciate it in literature. The First Violin, by Jesse Fothergill, is not very well known, and the romance is a bit sentimental but I was able to appreciate the many musical aspects of it because I was introduced previously to Beethoven and Bruckner and others.
The thing of it is, people don’t appreciate books that were written by unintelligent and misinformed people. Perhaps the majority of America love Stephanie Myer, but I have to wonder if she really knows what love is. Awhile ago there was a rumor that J.K. Rowling was a witch. If she was, then we know that Harry Potter was truly penned from the heart.
All this gets back to the idea of a holistic life. It is not enough to imagine myself doing the gardening, or cooking a meal, or painting a picture. It is not enough to simply read about them. Even on a small scale, it is enough to experience. This is because sight, sound, texture, smell, taste… these are all part of it. I love the way the air tastes around the basil and oregano plants. I love the way it feels to play Chopin passionately. I love the way the paints swirl together while your mixing colors for a picture. I love the way bread dough feels under my hands. You cannot experience the feelings that come as natural consequences of these activities through reading. You must do them.