The Epistolary Novel!

After researching for this weeks presentation, I found what is considered the first  Epistolary Novel: "Pamela" by Samuel Richardson.

This novel was immensely popular when it was published in 1741, and even led to a "Pamela" craze!The novel is written in the form of letters, written from Pamela to her parents--long and sometimes dull letters, if it weren't for all the drama contained in them.

Pamela is a fifteen year old servant girl who is very beautiful and virtuous. In fact, she manages to maintain her virtue (hint: virginity) throughout an ordeal that includes the  unwanted sexual advances of her master Mr. B. In fact this man goes so far as to spy on her, read her letters, fondle her, attempt to force himself on her, kidnap her, speak roughly to her, etc, etc, etc--which, by the way, we learn from her own hand, as she is the one writing these details in long letters to her poor frightened parents.

Finally, she marries him. How did that happen? I thought charges and an arrest might be in order after the way Mr. B acted. Sigh, I guess its only 1741, after all. And in Pamela's own words, she was but a "poor weak girl" who also happens to be a "dutiful daughter" and a virtuous girl!

Thankfully, we have Eliza Haywood, who wrote the satirical response to Richardson's story of virtue--"Anti-Pamela; or, Feigned Innocence Detected," which chronicles the lives of a mother/daughter con artist team who make attempts to trick men into marrying the beautiful daughter, Syrena Tricksy, so that they might be able to secure a wealthy financial future for themselves.

This leads me to think, however, what a true epistolary form would like in the 21st century--a series of texts, tweets, emails and sticky note letters? Hardly anyone writes letters to one another nowadays. At least not in the form that Pamela wrote them.

That brings me to "The Best of Betty" which is a contemporary take on the epistolary novel, obviously a shorter version, in the form of letters to an advice columnist who has her own style of giving advice (maybe Anti-Dear Abby)?

Until tomorrow,

Jaa Mata!!

~Night~

Writing publicly

Writing publicly...what does it mean, really? As an Aboriginal person I want to focus the majority of my writing on Aboriginal issues. This is an area that is very important to me. And by Aboriginal issues I don't mean to limit myself to only the larger issues but I want to bring attention to the seemingly smaller things. One of these things is the division between traditional First Nation's people and those First Nation's people who choose to follow the Christian faith.  For Aboriginal people, due to experiences with the residential school system, there are strong connotations of hatred associated with Christianity.  Christianity was responsibile for the systematic rape, murder, abuse and assimilation of our people, our culture and our children. So why on earth would any First Nation's person convert to Christianity?  Yet, it has happened and, now, Aboriginal Christians are often regarded as traitors to their own culture and people. Now, to be sure, there is some understanding--but often, there remains strong tension between a traditional First Nation's person and an Aboriginal Christian.

This is a very difficult topic. How do I write it? How do I write it for a public audience?  How would the public receive it? And, more importantly, how do I write it truthfully and objectively, while respecting both sides?

Writing badly

Inspired by my classmate Jessie's link to "writing uninspirations," I've decided to come up with some of my own writing uninspirations:

1. The sun rose up into the sky as though it were climbing a ladder of clouds.
2. She danced fiercly. The porridge, meanwhile, burned on the stove, also fiercely.
3. Hitherto, I was unaware of any form pressing itself against the lens of my livelihood. That is, until it shattered the glass, turning my exuberance into the pinnacle of my despondancy.
4. Joe walked up the stairs in silence, the betrayal of his lovesick heart beating in rhythm with each ascending step he took.
5. Like a metaphorical knife in my back symbolizes betrayal, the real knife in my back also symbolizes betrayal.

Well, there you go. Jessie's link reminded me of various literary contests to write the worst sentence. They are often called "Bad Writing Contests" and "Worst Sentence Contests." I've searched and found a link here:

                                                http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/2009.htm

Happy writing!

Finding my own style....

In my creative writing, that is, the writing that I am currently writing for my class--I cannot, as of yet, find the finished pieces I am looking for. That is, even though I have written a complete five page story, something still seems to lack.

All my life, I wanted to write. The only difference now is that I really want to write. Not just emotions. I don't want to skim the surface--I want to dive in. I want to find my own style.

And I'm finding the process of discovering that style a bit painful. It certainly doesn't come easy.

For example, assignment # 3 felt both forced and natural. Some parts came easily. I couldn't stop typing. Other parts were the result of a determined effort to write about something I wasn't very familar with. Nevertheless, the process was worth it. Even if the end product is something  that showed only the beginnings of the kind of writer I hope to be.

Now, back to studying....

Jaa Mata (See you later!)

Writing a Character is like....

I had a lot of fun creating a character for my first story this semester. I remember thinking about his home, his interests, his dislikes, his quirkiness. I enjoyed creating something unique. And it was my creation. I made him.

So, I think, writing a character is like.....

an act of creation.

But what if I needed to write sadness or darkness or death? What if I had to kill my character or watch him die with a few words? A part of me would die with him...even though he is only a character--only words on paper, a fragment of my creativity.

Is it wierd that I feel attached to my writing in this way?

Reading All Summer

Tonight, a little boy told me that he read all summer, instead of playing games. Now, he says, he is a very good reader. I believe him.

When I was ten years old, I became vividly interested in reading. Even though I always loved books, this was the time when my love of reading really started to blossom. I read, of course, from my mother's collection of novels and magazines. My selection included authors like Stephen King, George Orwell, Farley Mowat and the Omni magazines. From the school's library, I brought home books almost every week--books like R.L Stine's Goosebumps and Fear Street.

I once spent a whole summer reading Stephen King. I finished "It," "Christine," "The Tommyknockers" and "Four Past Midnight" before I turned eleven.  Once I started reading, I could not bare to stop the story until I finished it. My mouth sometimes tumbled over difficult words; my mind, equally frazzled, sometimes tumbled over the  images that King's words procured in my mind. But my mind had to have it.

At that young age, it seems, I discovered the seductive power of language, of stories and of imagination. I hope, that I can also bring to life the imagination of a child with stories, with words, with language. Maybe not with horror stories, though?

A Sunday Walk

A small blue heart I spotted, lying on the ground. It was actually a turquoise pendant, the missing piece to a necklace. I found it in my front yard. And, actually, its the missing piece to one of my necklaces. Its quite alright, though--I gave it to my daughter so she could use it for "treasure."

 My daughters, walking slightly ahead of me. I love this neighbourhood. I love the way the trees form a canopy over top of the houses, the street.

 One of three houses that are up for sale on our block.

 Poor little creature. I saw this bird as I was walking by a street corner. My daughters asked me why I was taking a picture of a dead bird. Because it was sad, I told them. But, I don't really know why. I just needed to take the picture--how do I explain that, even to myself?

 A streetpost. Should I go into further detail?

  Just some tall grass, a few flowers. I thought it would make a nice picture.

  A small shoeprint in the cement.  A future fossil, perhaps?

  My daughter found a ladybug. It was a quick little fellow. But we managed to snap his picture before he flew away.

  You can see these everywhere.  A tree just can't simply be a tree anymore.

 There is beauty everywhere. This is just down the street from where I live. An organic health food store. The entrance has a red picnic table to the left, a bench with peeling white paint, just to the left. The sunflowers were already starting to dry out. Still, bees continued to hover around what remained, gathering what was left of the summer's bounty.