More thoughts on "The Totem"

I knew as I was typing yesterday that other things had come to mind that I wanted to include in my review of The Totem, but which escaped me at that moment. They’ve since come back.

Morrell begins almost every chapter with a style I like, call it a “B-A-C” style. If you take the normal order of three events, some past event that lead to what is happening right now and one that happens next, and represent it by letters, it would be A-B-C. That is, A happened, now B is happening, and C happens next. In the B-A-C style, you say B is happening, a follow-up to A which just happened, and C happens next. Morrell does this constantly throughout the book.

I hesitate to say every chapter, but for sure in many chapters. I also used this method when I wrote Doctor Luke’s Assistant. I had never seen this described in any book on writing techniques. In fact, DLA was complete before I began reading those books. I just liked that style: begin the chapter with immediate action; then say what happened between chapters; then return to the action moving forward. As I began to pay more attention to the writing style in other novel, and to read those books on writing, I never saw this technique used or even discussed. So I edited some of those out of DLA, and haven’t been using that style in In Front Of Fifty Thousand Screaming People. After reading Morrell, I’m reconsidering.

Another thing Morrell did exceedingly well was the working in of back story. All the major characters had a past that impacted something on the event in the book. Slaughter had killed someone while on duty as a cop in Detroit, and was himself another shot with a shot gun and almost killed. The reporter was an alcoholic, fallen to a low position on the newspaper staff. The medical examiner had been in a fast-paced similar position in Philadelphia and ruined his career by becoming obsessed with his work. The younger veterinarian, Owens, had a past. Morrell is in no hurry to tell us all this. For the first third of the book he concentrates on developing the horror that is to come, letting the reader know enough to conclude the truth without giving it fully away. The last third of the book is devoted to the fast-paced actions that lead to the penultimate battle. The middle third of the book consists of long-ish chapters that give the back story of the major characters. It is done well. Even when telling us the back story, Morrell tells just enough to help us understand the characters, not so much as to overwhelm us.

A few more observations.

  • I mentioned that the denouement left me unsatisfied. One of the reasons is we don’t find out what happened to several characters who contracted the virus. We see them in their fully affected states, or even in their developing states, but with a couple of exceptions we don’t find out about them. We don’t see any consequences for the mayor, who botched things so badly.
  • The hippy colony was established in 1970; the book takes place around 1993. Yet during all this time, the town of Potters Field apparently had no contact with them, didn’t know they had changed locations, didn’t know how many were there or if they even existed. While the town “decided” in 1970 they wouldn’t have anything to do with the hipppies, it seems unlikely that for 23 years the two existed so close together (at most 60 miles apart), and no one from the colony came to the town to buy or sell, seek medical treatment, whatever. That is somewhat improbable, it seems to me. If they couldn’t come to town because of the virus, why did it take 23 years for this outbreak to occur? While this is a weakness in the plot (in my opinion, of course), it doesn’t really detract from the enjoyment of the tale.
  • The reappearance of Lucas Wheeler, the boy from the town who joined the colony, at the very time when he was needed to identify the one person from the colony who made his way into town during the crisis, was a coincidence too much.
  • Editing: I remembered another thing I wanted to say. The tie of the title to the story was not as strong as I would like. Morrell defines totem on the front end pages: “1. among primitive peoples, an animal or natural object considered as being related by blood to a given family or can and taken as its symbol. 2. an image of this.” I suppose the tie-in is based on what Dunlap, the reporter, found in the throne room. However, I would have liked the tie to be stronger.

That’s all I can think of for now. Plus I feel like I have written too much negative. Each of these seems to be magnified in my words, whereas they were really a series of minor problems, none of which individually, nor all together, made the book any less enjoyable.

Book Review: The Totem

Continuing to chip away at my long reading list, today I completed the next book on it: The Totem, a novel by David Morrell. I don’t know how well his name is known among the reading public, but everyone knows the character from his first novel: Rambo. Yes, Morrell wrote First Blood and created the Rambo character, later picked up for movies. I bought The Totem mainly because of Morrell. He taught a one-day class on fiction at the 2006 Glorieta Christian Writers Conference in New Mexico, and I bought his book on writing fiction.

I got aways into the book and began to realize it was a horror story. I don’t read horror at all, and was surprised this was a horror and not an action book. I turned to the cover, and it was right there: “A classic horror novel”. Well, nothing to do but continue. After all, I bought the book, and needed to get my $4.98 plus tax worth (from the Barnes & Noble remainders table).

The book was originally published in 1979, but Morrell re-released it in 1995, adding back in material the original publisher had asked to have deleted, and updating it for the later date. It takes place in and around the town of Potters Field, set in Wyoming. A colony of hippies had settled there about 1970, and hangers-on had come into the town and were run out by the townspeople. The version I read put those event 23 years in the past, so it was obviously updated.

The novel begins with a rancher checking his fences in June. He finds some deer carcasses and then a cow carcass that was mutilated in a frightening way. He calls the old vet, who comes out and gets the carcass, takes it back to autopsy it, discovers something terrible–whatever it was that killed the cow–but dies of a heart attack. In the confusion, the carcass is incinerated. So the cause of death is a secret. After that, a boy is bit by a raccoon, and within sixteen hours has become a lunatic animal, crawling on all fours, snarling, biting, licking. He attacks his mother, biting her, and runs away.

At this point rabies obviously comes to mind, but not exactly, for rabies takes more time to develop. A younger vet is called in; and the medical examiner. The police chief, Nathan Slaughter is also involved. In fact, Slaughter is the main character, although he isn’t introduced until the seventh chapter (I’ll have to discuss that with some writing pros). Slaughter left police work in Detroit to live an easier life on a simple ranch outside Potters Field, but was pressed into service as the town’s police chief five years earlier.

In the early going, Morrell does a good job of painting the scene so that the reader knows more than the characters. The reader knows long before any of the characters that this isn’t rabies, which doesn’t act as fast as whatever is going around. The early encounters with the whatever-this-disease-is are explained slowly. As the book progresses, less and less time is spent on each new encounter. This technique enhances the idea of a virus spreading rapidly, exponentially. The attacks come both in the town and out in the valley, and in those ranches that touch the mountains. The character who found the mutilated cow disappears; five state policemen use dogs to pick up the sent from where his abandoned truck. The arrive at a lake up in the mountains after dark, and are attacked by something and killed. Actually, in the scene Morrell does not really explain what happens to them, but implies it’s something pretty bad.

A reporter, Dunlap, had arrived in town just before the attacks start. He is doing a story on the old hippy colony and what became of it. He is an alcoholic, has fallen from a higher reputation, and is relegated to this. Another character returns to town. He was the teenager who joined the hippy colony which resulted in his father killing one of them and spending time in prison. The son has come back to claim his share of the ranch, also with notions of a possible reconciliation to his dad. Of course, his dad takes on a solitary vendetta against whatever is coming down out of the mountains, killing stock and spreading this virus.

Slaughter, the police chief, while checking a scene where the town wino died, is attacked by a “cat”, but shoots it and blasts its head to bits. The boy who bit his mom is trapped in an old mansion (the town’s main tourist attraction), and appears to be killed by a sedative–as a dog had been earlier–only to come to life on the autopsy table. Slaughter at this point on the Saturday night realizes something pretty bad is going on. The next morning he called the mayor, suggested drastic measures, only to be turned down and eventually turned out as police chief. Since the disease, probably a virus, did that to the boy (and to his mom), the thought is planted: could this be related to humans, perhaps the hippy colony gone amok?

I don’t want to give too much of the plot away, in case someone reading so far decides to buy the book, so I’ll stop here. The book is well written, as you would expect from a man who was able to have his first book published and turned into a movie. Morrell now has many novels to his credit. I found two things that bothered me about the book.

1. Too many times a past perfect tense is used when a simple past tense would seem appropriate. I did not mark this in the book, and flipping pages just now I can’t find any examples. I mean such things as “He was wondering what was causing the sickness” rather than, “He wondered what caused the sickness.” These came in batches, continuous few paragraphs. I’m sure Morrell had a purpose for this, but I couldn’t detect it.
2. The denouement was not as complete as I would have liked. We didn’t actually find out what caused the virus. It turned out to be related to the hippy colony, but how did it happen? We never found out what happened to the rancher who disappeared, and must presume he, his wife, and son perished. A few other loose ends are not tied up as neatly as I would have liked.

It’s a good read, however, and I recommend the book. It has a few cuss words, and Jesus’ name is taken in vain some, especially in one scene. But the book has no gratuitous violence and sex, which help to recommend it.

October Goals

While I am in this maintenance time, my goals will be modest.

1. Attend 1 meeting of my critique group. It will meet three times this month, but I’m not sure I want to devote six hours (or ten hours including driving) to this activity this month.

2. Complete my submission log. I came close a couple of months ago. An hour should suffice for this.

3. Contact the editor who has had The Screwtape Letters study guide, mailed three months ago today.

4. Continue to cull through the many writing-help items I have printed from Internet sites. Read or scan as appropriate, and discard anything not absolutely essential.

5. Add a few (say three or four) posts to the poetry workshop I started at the Absolute Write poetry discussion forum.

6. Gather all my writing, all the scraps and sheets that contain things as small as haiku or as long as chapters, into one place and file them as appropriate. I’m not really too far from having this done. I think three hours might be enough.

7. Plod along, as time, energy, and motivation allow, on three writing projects: the Elijah and Elisha Bible study; In Front Of Fifty Thousand Screaming People (maybe write one more chapter); and the Documenting America column. Although I’m not planning to market it at this time, I don’t want to abandon it totally.

That’s enough. I may possibly come back and edit in another one or two if I think of something.

ETA: Shame on me; saw one right away.

8. Post 10 to 12 times to this blog.

The September Report

Time to check in, and see how I did relative to my goals.

1. Attend critique group once (it meets every two weeks), and present the next chapter in my work-in-progress novel. I did this. I actually came close to attending the second time, but life got in the way.

2. Blog 10 to 12 times. I’d like to do more, but will settle for that. Did this one too. I posted 13 times, so slightly exceeded my goal.

3. Update my submissions log. I filed a few papers last night, and discovered I haven’t entered in my log the last several submissions I made. That may be important come tax time. I only partially finished this. Entered a few of the missing submissions, but not all.

4. (If I finally decide to market it) Submit Documenting America to about twenty newspapers as a possible self-syndicated column. As I posted last week, I have decided, for the time being, to shelve “Documenting America”, due to not wanting to commit to the time it would take each week. My loss, or the nation’s loss? Who knows.

5. Work on, and complete if possible, the proposal (with four sample chapters) for the Bible study requested by the editor. I did very little work on this project. Did some hand writing of the first sample chapter, and typed that, but then laid it aside while in the throes of decisions about DA. Maybe some in October.

6. Wait (patiently) for a response on the two projects I currently have out with an editor and agent. How else can one wait? Next week will be the week to follow up with the editor, and the first week in November for following up with the agent.

7. Continue to work on my reading list, the writing help book and the next one, whatever it is. I did fairly well on my reading list. I completed two books, and reviewed them both on this blog. I am more than half-way through the next book, Totem by David Morrell. I may be able to review that either late in the weekend or early next week; it will take a couple of posts. I don’t even remember what the next book is on my list, but I think it’s non-fiction.

One thing not on my September goals list, but which should have been, was:

8. Lead an on-line discussion group about “The Line as a Poetic Device” at the Absolute Write poetry discussion forum. I did this. Completed the research in early Sept, and began the workshop on Sept 5th. I let it lag after awhile, but will likely pick it up again, if not in October then probably in November.

Thinking of Mom

If Mom had lived, she would have been 90 years old today. I trust my loyal (though few) readers will indulge me as I depart from my normal format to write about her. The only electronic pictures of her are on my computer at home, so I will edit this tonight and paste one in, a beautiful childhood picture of her on a pony.

Dorothy Alfreda Sexton was born in New York, in 1918. She was conceived in St. Lucia, and her mother emigrated while pregnant, while World War 1 was on. That’s another story for another post (or a book). Mom and her mom lived with her mom’s uncle, David Sexton in Providence, Rhode Island. She grew up in that small household, her father absent, her mother’s marriage annulled. Uncle Dave became a surrogate grandfather/father to her, and his name was frequently invoked in glowing terms throughout my childhood (a subject for another post or book). I have his name.

Mom attended public schools through 8th grade, then was shipped off to Northfield School for girls in Northfield, Mass (a school founded by Dwight L. Moody) in proper British tradition. She graduated, then went to Rhode Island College (now the University of Rhode Island) for a brief time, one to three semesters. She took a job in Boston for some amount of time, then in Providence. At some point (not sure how long after she left school) she became an X-ray technician, and worked at this job until she was married and began having children. This might have been as long as twelve to fourteen years. I remember accompanying her to Dr. Richardson’s office when I was maybe 6 or 7, when she had to work one afternoon.

In January 1950 she married Norman Victor Todd in Providence, and we three children were born in 1950 through 1954. Dad was 33, Mom 31. In late 1950 Dad and Mom moved from Courtland Street in Providence to Cottage Street in Cranston. It was a convenient place for Dad to take the bus to his night job, and to walk home the four miles at 4:00 AM. It was a smallish house, on a smallish lot, but it adequately served we five.

I never remember Mom being anything but sick, deathly sick. Her kidneys were bad, and she had to fix separate food for herself since she couldn’t eat protein. Eventually her whole body went bad, whether from the kidneys or lack of nourishment I don’t know.

I came to the conclusion that the years of exposure to X-rays, back in the days when they didn’t know the danger, was what ruined her kidneys, but now I’m not sure of that. Years after her death I discussed this with Dad, and was surprised to learn that Mom had breast cancer and had a double radical mastectomy. She was considered a cancer survivor, having lived more than five years after the operation. But I have no childhood memory of her having cancer–being sick, yes, but from her kidneys, not cancer. So my working theory now is the x-rays caused her cancer, she had the double as well as chemotherapy in the early days of what was then an experimental type of treatment, and the chemo ruined her kidneys. Just a theory, but possible and maybe probable.

On August 13, 1965, Mom checked into the hospital for the last time. She spent time in the hospital two or three times a year, but this time was different. She died about 10:30 PM on August 19, 1965, age 46 years, 10 months, 20 days. Dad was at work at his night job, we kids at home. The hospital called him and he rushed there, but he didn’t get there in time.

My memories of Mom are good, although I ache for the constant pain she lived in. To give her an activity that didn’t require much physical effort, our family took up stamp collecting. Both Mom and Dad had done that in their formative years, but let it go as adults. Oh, the memories of working on our collections. During the week Mom opened envelopes purchased from dealers and sorted, or soaked and sorted if required. On Saturday night the five of us sat around the dining room table, each with our albums. Mom distributed the stamps acquired, always one country per night. If she had five or more of a stamp, each of us got one. If four, we three kids got one and Mom and Dad alternated. If three, they went to us kids. After that, the stamps were put in the middle, and we all had a chance to pick one, going round and round until all were distributed and the duplicates were in an envelope. We licked hinges and put them in our albums. We usually discussed what was on some of the stamps, learning history that way, seeing other alphabets, other languages, learning shades of colors, etc. A wonderful, wonderful time.

Did working the stamp collections prolong Mom’s life, since it gave her a reason to live through the pain? I suspect so. I’m a strong believer in the will to live having something to do with longevity.

Allow me to add here a poem I wrote about Mom several years ago on the anniversary of her death. I may make another post with two others I’ve written.

Thirty-Eight Years Ago

Crippled by years of encroaching pain,
a precious mother breathed her last.
What legacy lives on today,
as memories are fading fast?
Each year I live those days again,
and wonder if she found her way.

"Maintenance" Time

I’m not writing anything at present. The demands of life and realities of the publishing business are the cause. Continuous mental tiredness–partly in anticipation of life activities I know are coming–and perceived unlikelihood of selection for publishing are the specifics. I’ve discarded a few scraps that once upon a time I might have saved and made into poems. If other ideas for writing have passed through my mind (which I don’t think they have of late), I have allowed them to break the speed limit upon exit.

During this time, I have also laid aside my reading list in favor of reading several notebooks full of previously downloaded articles. Most of these are writing helps, from websites or small e-books the gurus and semi-gurus of the industries have produced. When writing is an exciting thing, these look and sound good. When writing sours, these only take up shelf space. So I’m reading them and sticking them in a recycling/reuse pile. At home, that pile is about 10 inches high. At work, I’d say about two reams of paper. Both are still growing, and the end is not yet.

At home, most of these papers are related to fiction: how to write it, how to edit it, how to sell it, how to market it. Most of it is all good stuff. I had read about half of it and kept it. Now, on second read, I realize keeping it is not needed. The other half I may have skimmed, but never read. Now on first read, I realize keeping it is not needed. I’m keeping a few things, on book proposals and query letters. I suppose a spark of hope for future gumption still exists.

At work, most of it is related to poetry: how to write it, what makes it good, how to properly use metaphor, figures of speech, etc, etc. Most of this I read upon initial download, and saved for some footling reason. All of this is going. The notebook I’m working on does not contain a thing I could not access again from the Internet, nor is any of it that essential to my poetic development. So into the recycling box it goes, emptied weekly and thus irretrievable should I change my mind.

Another thing I’m adding to the home recycling/reuse pile is old copies of Doctor Luke’s Assistant. One of these is an early version, the one I gave to my first beta readers. The other is the next-to-last version, the one with hand-written edits that I made just before submitting to an agent and my most recent beta readers. When I began discarding this last one, I turned the pages to see if the edits were really done, evidenced by being yellowed-out. Most were, but I found a few to which I had not applied the marker. So I went to the computer, pulled up the official copy, and began going page by page. I found a few things that actually had not been typed. These were not typos, but rather improvements in wording to eliminate passive voice, wordiness, repeated words, modern contractions, etc. And, I found a few places where I could made a new improvement. Why bother, I don’t know, but I made them. I went through about a hundred pages last night. After I complete this, that paper version will go as well.

I kept all these past versions of DLA based on the advice from David Morrell (author of First Blood and creator of the Rambo character). He says to save everything: every hand-written scrap, every typed draft, every edit, and when the book is written and published (yeah, right), box them up and keep them as a record and for posterity. I don’t think I will be following his advice in this regard any longer. Why have to move a box with about fifteen reams of paper next time we move, simply to create a record of how I wrote a book that was never published?

All of this is somewhat releasing, dare I say exhilarating. I’m not experiencing a bit of sorrow in the process, other than for the trees I must have killed in the original printing.

Book Review: Writing To Be Read

At some thrift store we visited during our travels in August, I picked up Writing To Be Read by Ken Macrorie [1968, Hayden Book Company, LOC no. 67-31284]. I paid 69 cent for it, so figured I couldn’t go wrong. In mid-August, when I sorted all the books in reading pile, I decided to put this one second, trying to mix fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and writing help books.

The book wasn’t bad, but it also was not as helpful as I hoped it would be. I suppose the stamps on the book’s edges, one for Gonderson High School in San Jose, CA, and one for Steinbeck Jr. High, should have clued me in. That and the age, and the fact that the book was barely read. Either this was an extra copy that rarely was assigned to a student or the students who had it had better things to do than read it.

The main problem with the book was the slant toward journalism, as opposed to other types of writing. Almost every example of both good and bad writing came from publications–more newspapers than magazines–than any other. Very few examples came from fiction. Most of the examples were from student newspapers in the 1960s. Quite a few came from the writings of Henry David Thoreau. A few came from 20th century American poets. The writing exercises were mostly journalism type things.

I don’t mean to say the book had no value; it did, probably enough to justify the cost. The chapter on effective use of repetition should be valuable for me in both prose and poetry. The chapter on maintaining flow was useful. The chapter on finding an angle seems more slanted toward journalism, but may give me a few things to consider on other writing.

I have one chapter plus two pages to go to finish the book. I’m not sure I’m going to. I rarely do not finish a book I start. That’s just a thing with me. If I paid for the book, even if it cost me money to go to the library for it, I feel like I must finish it to get my money’s worth. On this one, with a chapter and two pages unread, I feel that I justified the expense of 69 cent.

Change of Heart: No Documenting America

After hemming and hawing about this for a long time, I’ve decided to abandon (for now) any attempts to market my Documenting America newspaper column. The amount of work required each week is the main factor: fear of commitment.

I may still do some of the activities related to the column. I love reading and analyzing those old documents, and so will continue to do so. I enjoy developing a 700-800 word column from those, so I may continue to write them, and accumulate them in anticipation of a future date when I might change my mind. More likely some day in the future, when I assume room temperature, my executor will find these in a file/folder/box, have a good laugh at the stupidity of it all, and discard/recycle them. If I don’t do it first.

Some Moments

Pamela Tudsbury, in Herman Wouk’s excellent novel The Winds of War, said, “Some moments weigh against a life time.”

I have found her (or rather his) words to be true in life in general and in my life in particular. Those moments probably are not recognizable at the time. Well, some are. Death and destruction, such as the 9/11 attacks on the USA or the death of a loved one, are obvious, but other moments aren’t. In the novel, Pamela and Victor Henry were talking about a moment that had happened some days or weeks before.

On Wednesday I may have had such a moment. I recognized it instantly, though I’m waiting to see if I’m right or not. Consequently, I may be silent here for a while.

"Ex parte Milligan"

Last night I went to work polishing the Documenting America files I will need to do the marketing. I took another look at the query letter–probably the 50th time–and couldn’t find a word to change. Then I pulled out the critique group comments for #0006, and went through them. I had already gone through the critique group comments for the query letter and #0001.

Some of the comments required that I double check the original document quoted in the column, to check for errors, and to make a better reference in two places. So I pulled the volume off the shelf at home and re-read it. The subject matter of this particular column was a Supreme Court decision in 1866. Designated “Ex parte Milligan”, it was a decision that determined that trial by military court was inappropriate where civilian courts were functioning and where war was not present nor anticipated.

I hesitated, a couple of years ago, to choose this as a topic. Who am I to examine, extract, and comment on legal issues before our highest court? But I found the issue fascinating, studied it, and determined I could give a “layman’s” view of it, and did. Today I decided to do just a little more research, and so Googled “ex parte Milligan”. To my surprise this resulted in 28,800 hits. Yikes! This may be an obscure court decision for the layman, but obviously not for the legal professional. This once again caused fear of error to rear up. Layman or not, I’d better be sure I know what I’m talking about for the limited commentary in the column.

As I did this work last night, I skimmed through the table of contents of the volume and found other documents that appear good items for future columns. I read one of them, marking with pencil the parts I will likely quote. Two or three others I marked for columns based on the topic and a very quick scanning of the text.

All of this, between yesterday and today, took about two hours. Two very enjoyable hours. Two hours where I felt I was in my element. Two hours where I was able to stick to business, not including some time dreaming of success in this endeavor.

Ever closer, ever closer.

Author | Engineer