Who said this…anybody know?

I’ve just finished listening to the third of our Great Debates – the discussions between the leaders of our three main political parties. It was interesting, and the series of confrontations has certainly livened up the pre-election scene here. But I have to admit that political rhetoric is not fully mind-absorbing to a cynical former journalist like me. So I passed the time in trying to track down a quotation I heard recently and can’t find. I thought it was a saying of Sherlock Holmes, an aside in one of his later adventures. It goes something like:

“Whatever we may think of life, it’s infinitely preferable to the alternative.”

Can someone help me out here? If it wasn’t written by Conan Doyle, then who was it written by…er that is, by whom was it written…no, blow it, my old English teacher is unlikely to read this. Who was it written by?  If you know, please tell.

As the debate continued, I started looking for sayings that would be useful to our three performing politicians, perhaps as bumper stickers or post-it notes on their walls.

How about this: “Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it whether it exists or not, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedy.” from Sir Ernest Benn. He was a publisher and publicist born in Queen Victoria’s time, and today his words are still too true to be funny, really.

And then a beauty from Winston Churchill, especially for our Prime Minister who (in case you’ve just returned from Mars) blotted his copybook yesterday, by being rude about someone while  forgetting that his radio mike was still live and recording. “We are masters of the unsaid words,” Churchill remarks, “but slaves of those we let slip out.”

My favourite collected during the ninety-minute broadcast – new to me, though I’m sure American readers probably learnt it at school – is this one from Abraham Lincoln:

“How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg? Four; calling a tail a leg doesn’t make it a leg.”

Now there’s a truth every politician should take on board.

Opening Lines

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a fiction writer in possession of a book contract must be in want of a good opening.

Openings are so important, aren’t they? Like that one I just mangled, (Pride and Prejudice, I’m sure you knew!) It’s so apt that it’s more or less passed into the language, which is something all of us authors dream about.

I wish I’d written it. And these as well:

It was a bright cold  April day, and the clocks were striking thirteen. (George Orwell, 1984)

I, Claudius Tiberius Drusus Nero Germanicus This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles…) (Robert Graves)

I’ve a special soft spot for I, Claudius, because it was the book that got me hooked on Ancient Rome when I was thirteen or so. Claudius’ adventures were so different from the formal, rather staid Roman writings that featured in our Latin lessons. Romans, I realised, were real people with interesting lives…considerably more interesting in Claudius’ case than anything encountered by a 13-year-old at a girls’ boarding school!

What makes a good opening paragraph?

The obvious things are easy to list. It doesn’t need to be, in fact it can’t hope to be, all things to all readers, so I rule out that classic spoof supposed to cover all the most popular story elements, tragedy, celebrities, drama and mystery: “It’s a disaster!” cried the Princess, “I’m pregnant. Whodunit?”

A proper opening must give a flavour of the book – reflect tension if there’s suspense, humour if you can expect to get a smile occasionally. It can set a scene, like the 1984 opening; you immediately want to know about those clocks. It can ease you in sideways, as Jane Austen conducts her readers from the general to the particular

But the key ingredient is one of those intangible ones that are easier to recognise than to pin down. It must be eye-catching, or mind-catching is perhaps a better word. It must hook the reader, make her or him want to find out more. Watch people browsing in bookshops…yes, bricks-and-mortar bookshops still exist, and long may they continue. Notice how often someone will pick up a book, glance at its cover, including the publisher’s blurb on the back, then open it and scan the first page or so. If that hooks them, you’re halfway to them buying it, or borrowing it from the library, or at least putting it on their wish list for future reference.

If the first page doesn’t grab their attention, they may still want to read the book of course, especially if they like that writer’s work; but they are less likely to buy something by an author they’ve never read before if the first few lines don’t appeal.

I’m saying “they” when I should say “we” because I’m no exception. The book I’m reading now, “Silent is the Grave” by Deanna Raybourn, is one I started because its beginning made me laugh out loud. The publishers must have liked it too, because they printed it in the blurb on the back cover, at least of my paperback copy.

Under the heading “London, 1886”, it runs:

“To say that I met Nicholas Brisbane over my husband’s dead body is not entirely accurate. Edward, it should be noted, was still twitching upon the floor.”

So far the book’s living up to its promise, a hist-myst with nice touches of humour. I’ll let you know my final opinion when I finish it. But whatever the eventual verdict, isn’t that a great beginning?

Shakespeare and St. George

Happy St. George’s day, everyone, and happy birthday, Shakespeare – April 23rd 2010 is the 446th anniversary of his birth. So, following my resolution of yesterday to share some favourite quotations, I’ve been reminding myself of some of the Bard’s memorable ones…which seemed a better bet than trying to find quotes from St. George. An admirable saint no doubt, who may well have said, “Hey, girl, do you need rescuing today?” or “Blimey, (insert ancient swear-word here,) that dragon’s hot stuff.” But history doesn’t relate. I’m on safer ground with our William.

I’m not a Shakespeare scholar. I studied some of the plays at school (didn’t we all?) and I’ve seen many of them on stage or film, but that’s about it. Still you  can’t help being aware, can you, just how many familiar quotes old William has left us. “Friends, Romans, countrymen,” “To be or not to be,” “All the world’s a stage,” “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” I could add dozens more, and so could anyone who’s gone through an English-speaking education system.

But what surprises me when I start delving into quotation books or websites is how many ordinary, everyday idioms originate with Shakespeare. Modern-seeming phrases and expressions that I thought of as just part of the language…and so they are, but not by mere chance. “For goodness sake,” for instance (uttered by Wolsey in Henry VIII,) and “in my mind’s eye” (said by Hamlet,) and, most unexpectedly, “what the dickens?” (Master Ford in the Merry Wives of Windsor.) I always thought that one was related to a much later Dickens, he of Bleak House and Great Expectations fame. Now own up…didn’t you?

Another surprise concerns “too much of a good thing,” said by Rosalind in As You Like It. Apparently the original meaning of this was a bawdy joke which Will’s audience would have well understood. “Thing” was a common euphemism for male or female genitalia, so “too much of a…” well you get the idea. And next time I find myself using that expression in all innocence, I’ll have a job not to smile as I remember what my Elizabethan ancestors were probably thinking of when they heard it.

Let’s have some new clichés

I wish I could claim that I originated today’s title line, but of course it’s from the immortal Sam Goldwyn. I started looking up his life and times on the Internet this morning; couldn’t resist it, even though I should be working, because of the  news about the possible demise of MGM. A sad prospect for all of us who remember the golden age of their films…the chariot-race from Ben-Hur, the early James Bonds. Those films will last as long as people want to see movies. So, I predict, will many of Goldwyn’s one-liners.

Most people know a few of them; sayings like “include me out” have indeed become new clichés.  “A verbal contract isn’t worth the paper it’s written on” has always been a favourite of mine, and I’ll bear it in mind if/when anyone from Hollywood offers to turn any of my books into films.

Some of Sam G’s best comments are, naturally, about films. “The scene is dull. Tell him to put more life into his dying.” And this pearl of wisdom, which applies equally to writers of books and movies: “Don’t pay any attention to the critics – don’t even ignore them.” I’ll remember that next time I get a review I’m less than happy with.

And how about, “I had a monumental idea this morning, but I didn’t like it.” Doesn’t that strike a chord with everyone trying to devise yet another neat plot twist that just won’t come right? But it has given me a monumental idea…well, a good thought, anyway…which I do like. I’m going to share some of my favourite quotes on this blog from time to time. I don’t know if I can run to “quote of the day” as some sites do, but we’ll see how it goes. Anyone out there got a treasured quote to share too?

I never did like flying

My heart goes out to all the unlucky travellers stranded by the outpourings of that pesky Icelandic volcano – I don’t even know its name, but I can guess at the names it’s been called lately. Some people have got home after long, uncomfortable, and expensive journeys. Many are still kicking their heels in foreign airports or hotels.

As I write this, it looks as if their ordeal is drawing to a close. The news media are reporting that Britain’s airports are opening again, which means aircraft can at least begin to get back to their proper schedules. The ash cloud is still there, but plane flights are deemed safe now, due to “revised decisions over tolerance levels” of aero engines to volcanic ash…a spooky phrase, if you ask me. But then I never did like flying.

I’ve been lucky and travelled a reasonable amount, much of it by plane. I’ve been glad of the convenience and the relative cheapness, which has made it possible for me to visit far-flung destinations…New Zealand, Sri Lanka, Canada, the USA. I’ve seen wonderful places which I couldn’t possibly have reached without wings. But I never do feel truly at ease whizzing along at five hundred mph thirty-some thousand feet above the surface of the earth.

Even if I could afford to fly first class instead of being wedged into a seat apparently designed for someone half my size, I’d still have the lingering feeling that flying is, to use a favourite expression of my grandmother’s, “against nature.” I’ve never been involved in any sort of air accident; I suppose I’m just a bit of a wimp, though not enough of one to stop flying altogether. Only when something like this ash cloud happens, I thank my stars I’m safely here on terra firma, with no plans to get airborne just now.

On the other hand I love boats and trains. Whereas a plane is a means to an end, to be tolerated because of where it takes you, boat or train travel can be an end in itself. A cruise can be wonderful; I’ve been on several brilliant ones. Even a short ferry trip across the English Channel makes a grand start or finish to a holiday. I’m one of those annoyingly good sailors who doesn’t mind how rough the sea gets, and rather enjoy the drama of a good Force 10; and in calm weather, it’s sheer delight to stand in the bow of a boat watching the sun sparking on the water and feeling the breeze on my face.

And as for trains, one of the best journeys I’ve ever done was in my student days, when a group of us made the three-day trip from London to Athens (and another three days back.) We went through Belgium, Germany, Austria, Yugoslavia (then all one country) and finally down through Greece itself. We saw marvellous mountain scenery, and met  fascinating fellow-travellers of many nationalities, and slept sitting up in our seats, and ate a weird mixture of food…it was magic.

So if I ever become fabulously rich (OK, don’t hold your breath,)  I won’t bother with a private jet. I’ll go everywhere over land or by sea. I’ll have first class accommodation on every boat and train, naturally…a suite of staterooms whenever I sail, a whole train carriage to myself, or maybe two, one for the luggage…and if it takes time, then so be it. I shall enjoy every minute.

Well, we can all dream, can’t we?

Run, Rabbit, Run

I expect I should be blogging about something important, like the ash cloud that has grounded all our aeroplanes, or the forthcoming General Election. But I’d rather tell you about the nest of baby rabbits we found yesterday in our garden.

I’ve a soft spot for rabbits. I used to keep them as pets when I was a child, and doubtless Beatrix Potter and Uncle Remus have something to do with it as well. And we’re used to seeing them behind our country garden, which is quite large and backs onto woods and a golf course. There are several rambling warrens among the trees, and our two spaniels think it’s fine sport to chase their inhabitants when they can.

There’s even been a big cheeky bunny visiting our garden daily for about a month; when the dogs run after it, it makes itself scarce (dare I say hops it? No, best not,) but comes back later when they’re not around. Fortunately it seems to prefer eating our grass to devouring tasty little seedlings.

Then yesterday my husband Richard wasn’t best pleased to find a new burrow right in the middle of his vegetable patch. It appeared to be empty, and we assumed our resident ambassador from Watership Down had tunnelled through from the woods into our garden, only a few yards. Or perhaps it was preparing a new home from scratch (sorry,) in the nice soft soil.

But one of our spaniels knew better. When nobody was looking he dug the burrow out and found the nest with four babies. The first we knew of it was when he appeared carrying one of them – dead, alas, but outwardly undamaged, so presumably it had died of fright, which they are prone to do.

The other three were unhurt, but we clearly couldn’t let them stay in our garden. They wouldn’t have stood a chance against the dogs. They were active and sturdy-looking, about a month old I’d say, so they should be at least partially weaned, and might make it on their own if their mother doesn’t come back to them. We decided their best hope was to give them a new home out in the woods. Richard found one of the many entrances to our nearest warren, a narrow hole under a protective tree-root so dogs can’t get in, and when he let the little ones loose at its entrance they dashed inside without a backward look.

I hope they make it. We’ll never know. All we do know is that we did our best for them.

Literature by the Seaside

Today I looked in on the Scarborough Literature Festival, aka the Long Weekend – a fair enough name, because it started yesterday and goes on till Sunday. It’s still a small festival as these things are measured, but it’s growing fast, and it’s lively and varied.

It’s excellent to have a festival like this so close to home – only nine miles away. It includes all kinds of authors, books, and book-related topics in it; fiction and non-, poetry, theatre, lunches with authors, workshops…and various events specially for children.

And – a must for any literature festival worthy of the name – it includes crime and mystery. Not all aficionados of literary junketings allow that the mystery genre is really “Literature” (note the capital L,) an attitude which annoys me intensely. I’m delighted Scarborough doesn’t go in for such silliness. The session I went to today was about historical mysteries. Lindsey Davies and Paul Doherty, two stellar authors, chatted about their craft, under the chairmanship of another star, Peter Guttridge. He steered the talk through subjects as diverse as using the Internet for research (and how to avoid rubbish in cyberspace,) to the reluctance of the Privy Council to allow any English royal tombs to be opened, even very old ones where there’s a suspicion that the occupant might not correspond to the name on the outside inscription. Fascinating stuff it all was.

Lindsey, who has become famous for her series about her Roman-Empire detective  Falco, told us about her new book, REBELS AND TRAITORS, which is set during the English Civil War. It’s a period she’s been fascinated by for many years, and she said she’s loving the research, and the wealth of source material available for historians of the 17th century compared with the arbitrary scattering of written texts that remain to us from Falco’s day. Sounds a fascinating read – I’ll add it to my To Be Read list, which is already as long as my arm.

Paul, too, spoke of the joys of research, and he’s done plenty, having written series about the English Middle Ages, Ancient Egypt, and Ancient Greece. He spoke of the delight of finding in a primary historical source a description of a historical person which was surprising enough to set a novelist’s imagination flying. He instanced Olympias, the mother of Alexander the Great, who from his description was just as fascinating in her way as her famous world-conquering son. Another book for the TBR list!

Have a look at the Festival website, www.scarboroughliteraturefestival.co.uk. If you can’t make the Long Weekend this year, remember it for 2011.

Greetings from Yorkshire

Welcome to my new blog. I’m going to start with a confession…I’ve been blogging for some years, but this is my first solo effort. I’ve been part of a group blog (The Lady Killers, an amazing collection of mystery writers,) and enjoyed it very much, including the fact that I wasn’t responsible for all the technical stuff, I just had to post now and then. With this one, any cyber-glitches are down to me. Let’s hope there aren’t too many.

I’ll be talking about all sorts of things…about being a writer, being a Yorkshire tyke, my Roman mystery series featuring innkeeper Aurelia Marcella, other people’s mysteries, books in general, history, places, dogs,  food, whatever occurs to me. And don’t forget I’m from Yorkshire, and Yorkshire people always speak their minds (whether asked to or not.) I hope you’ll do the same, when you add your comments.

This photo shows me in my office trying to look busy. Not a very convincing effort, is it? I’m lucky to have my own space to work in. I really admire people who can write anywhere, like on the corner of a kitchen table, or while crammed into a crowded bus. I can read almost anywhere, but for writing I need my own bit of peace and quiet.  I’m glad the photo doesn’t show too much of my general untidiness. My system for storing and filing is what I call flexible, untrammelled by silly restrictive concepts of method and organisation. Other people may call it something else. But I can always find what I need…that is, nearly always…well, on a good day. And some of my shelves must make a great wildlife habitat for dust mites.

I bet plenty of people have much more entertaining favourite writing places for writing or reading. On elephant-back in the jungle? In a canoe on the Amazon? What’s the most unusual spot where you’ve ever found yourself with a book, or a manuscript, in hand?