The Secret Grove Pt. 1

As storytellers gain experience in the kinds of things their listeners/readers/viewers like, genres emerge. For instance, there was a time when people wanted to hear about a dude falling asleep, meeting a guide and gaining mystical insight to such abstract concepts as the nature of God, fame, the afterlife and the universe in general. This genre is called “Dream Vision,” and people were absolutely mad for it. I’m not sure how well it would fly now, but some of the most popular and best literature written in the English language is Dream Vision. Nowadays in film we like to watch outlandish problems solved by equally outlandish heroes, primarily by punching and exploding things (Marvel and DC pantheons, Hellboy). In TV, we love to watch crimes, usually murders, being solved. Bonus points if it’s done using forensic evidence (Castle, Criminal Minds, Bones, CSI <insert large metropolitan area here>). In books, this week we like paranormal/crime, paranormal/romance, and more murder solving.

It’s important to know that genres develop based on the needs of the consumer. Thrillers are written, sold and read because people are bored. Romances sell because people feel unloved. Pulitzer Prize winners sell because… actually, that is a complicated bag of worms. I’ll complain about that later. The point is, genres tell us something about the people that read them. This is as true for children’s literature as it is for adults. However, children have vastly different needs than their adult counterparts, resulting in vastly different and oddly specific genres. There is the ever popular “Boy and His Dog” genre (Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows, Because of Winn-Dixie), the children’s version of Historical Fiction that places children in the thick of major events (Johnny Tremain, Rush Revere), and the “Secret Grove*,” in which children leave this familiar, ordinary world and have many adventures in a new, fantastic one. This last genre is of particular interest to me since this is where my book falls.

I have seen the subgenre of Secret Grove formally recognized only once, which either means that I haven’t been hanging out with the right people or we have a problem in not taking children’s literature seriously. Probably both are true. Regardless, this is a very real literary phenomenon that deserves attention. Perhaps it was J.M. Barrie who did it first with “Peter Pan.” C.S. Lewis did it in his highly allegorical “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,” which developed into the “Chronicles of Narnia” series. Madeline L’Engle followed suit with “A Wrinkle in Time” which also blossomed into a series of books. Norton Juster’s “The Phantom Tollbooth,” Julie Edwards’ “The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles,” Astrid Lindgren’s “Mio, My Son,” and let’s not forget the lesser known iterations that tried to recapture Lewis’s magic such as “The Archives of Anthropos” series by John White and “The Imager Chronicles” by Bill Myers; all of these excellent examples of the Secret Grove. God forbid we forget that one by that one lady about the kid with the glasses. What was its name again? Then there are the ones that don’t technically take place in another world, but bring that other world into ours such as “The Spiderwick Chronicles” by Tony DiTerlizzi and Holly Black, and “Jumanji” by Chris Van Allsburg. Finally, “kids save a fantasy world” as a genre is central to the 2005 film “Neverwas,” meaning it is accepted as an instantly recognizable feature of children’s literature.

Genres often share more than one theme in common, and such is the case with Secret Grove narratives. Key features are of course child protagonists, often orphaned or the child of a single parent (COSP), and entrance to a fantastic world through a portal. The journey is often made with at least one sibling or close friend.  Like Dream Visions, there is usually a guide or guides to help the children navigate their new environment. The protagonist(s) learn that the world is under imminent threat from unspeakable evil (explicit menace appropriately scaled to the age of the target audience), but it is hoped that their arrival portends the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy. The children must then traverse hostile terrain and engage with various monsters employing tactics with vaguely allegorical connotations including brute force, deception, and temptation, until the final showdown with the evil threat. What happens after the inevitable victory depends on variations in the plot. If it turns out the protagonist is orphaned/COSP because they are actually natives of the fantasy world and were hidden away on our normal, boring world to protect them from the ultimate evil, the protagonist is allowed to stay and be a celebrated hero and/or continue to have adventures, at which point the narrative has the chance to morph into a straight Fantasy should it expand into a series. If, however, the protagonist has a loving family at home who will worry about their absence, they will be returned to our world to discover that time works differently in the opposing universes, and that the whole of their adventures has taken anywhere from the span of an afternoon to a matter of seconds in our time.

This is just preliminary information. In the following week I’ll reveal my hypothesis on the rationale behind Secret Grove conventions, some of their unintended consequences, and perhaps how I plan to maintain or subvert these tropes. In the meantime, I would love to know your thoughts on this topic. What is/was YOUR favorite Secret Grove novel and why? Did I get some conventions wrong, or are there some I have missed? Is “The Archives of Anthropos” too blatant a derivative of Narnia to be worth the read, or does it sufficiently advance the genre?

*I believe the term “Secret Grove” is a reference to C.S. Lewis’ “The Magician’s Nephew,” in which the protagonists magically travel to a park-like area with many trees and pools scattered throughout. The pools are gateways through which the children travel to the worlds Charn, Narnia, and Earth, and it is suggested that each pool hides a world of its own.

Baby Steps

After finishing “Watchmen,” I wanted to knock out “The Fault in our Stars” by John Green, for no other reason other than it has been recommended too many times for me to ignore. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the film just came out, so there are no copies available at the library. I’m reading “Catch-22” by Heller instead.

Additionally, I’m writing a résumé and including all of my publications (exactly one), which made me go back and read it again. It was an ambivalent experience for only one reason; I wanted to fix it. My submission was as good as I could possibly make it at the time. I wrote it quickly and did some light editing, but there were few changes I could find. Now I can find a lot. Sentence restructuring, word reduction, tailoring for the audience, it could have been tighter and thus more effective. This is a good thing. It means I’m better now. However, it also means that I released inferior work and it’s now part of my permanent record. Same for the guest blogging I did for the cloth diapering people. Not exactly bad work, but flawed and that’s a little embarrassing. Maybe even negatively impacts my shot at a job.

Still, it’s publication and that’s better than nothing. I'm not sure if guest blogging counts, and I have one more article under review. It's all non-fiction, and I haven't been paid for any of it. I still have a long way to go to selling fiction.

Treading Water

Post graduation, I had every intention of updating the blog every Tuesday, but between caring for and bussing my beautiful but wounded wife to and from work, and looking after my two kids, and not coming up with anything specific to talk about, meeting my deadline is more difficult than I previously thought

I have been reading “Watchmen,” watching “Stargate: Atlantis,” and pecking away at my own work. Atlantis has reminded me how good, personable characters can save a weak plot. Alan Moor’s work verifies that multiple points of view inside a single narrative can be effective, even desirable. Maybe I’m strange for enjoying time spent with Rorschach, but we couldn’t get the whole story with only his point of view and besides, it’s good to take a break from him every once in a while. He’s an intense fellow.

Meanwhile, I recently finished editing a piece on the inoculation conspiracy. Hopefully it will appear in a university magazine, but not in time to pad my resume for the job hunt. C’est la vie. Guess I’ll keep plugging away at my fiction and see where I land.

On the Other Side of the Academic Gauntlet

In May 2012 I went back to school because at 90+ credit hours, it was kind of dumb not to finish. I switched my major from Respiratory Care at Texas State University to English with an emphasis on Creative Writing from the University of Missouri. I changed schools because we moved, and I changed majors because I’m terrible at math (absolute truths proven by inviolable laws) and pretty good at literature (saying pretty much anything you want in a way that sounds plausible). At the time my wife and I were expecting our first child. I had written about three chapters of a middle grade children’s novel, but I didn’t know if it was any good. We were new in town, and didn’t have any real friends though we did have acquaintances that showed some promise. I didn’t know about Aldi, Hot Box Cookies, or where exactly the Hinkson joined with the Katy Trail. I learned some things.

I learned about annotated bibliographies and the precise amount of pucker needed to properly kiss professorial bohonkus. I learned a little about how to use a research engine, a lot about Chaucer, and that most instructors are so tired of reading the same thing in every paper, they are typically appreciative of a little self-aware sass. I learned how much time it takes to get to any given section of campus on foot; walking, running, or flat out sprinting. I learned about the Stith-Thompson motif index, in text citation, and the sensitivity of liberal arts professors concerning the value of what they teach. I learned that clever prose and flowing style will only get you so far, but it’s usually far enough. I learned that literary types love Tobias Wolff’s “Bullet in the Brain” because, they claim, it is an excellent example of time suspension as literary device. This time suspension just happens to occur while a bullet pierces a literary critic’s skull and painstakingly shreds through his dura mater. On a completely unrelated note, I have learned that plot oriented wish fulfillment is a cheap way to manufacture interest and is in fact frowned upon. Speaking of that, I learned a ton about writing.

The majority of what was said in my fiction classes regarding craft made so much sense, and I was gratified to go through my previous work and find I did a lot of things right. Then again, I did a lot of things wrong. The workshop can be a terrifying and embarrassing time for inexperienced writers as they are systematically disabused of the illusions they, and perhaps their friends and family, have engendered about their writing ability. I have been concerned about this from the beginning, especially after I read the work that others put forward. Some were ok, some were pretty bad, only two in my first class had what I considered to be potential, though I take issue with a lot of the stuff that is published so I apparently don’t know anything about good literature. I was typically one of the last to go, but my work was always well received. I had kind instructors who never shamed a student for their work, even if it was objectively terrible. Still, I tried to read my instructors and figure out which stories and authors they liked, and I believe I was always one of those. I learned many things about writing, both craft and theory, but perhaps the most valuable thing I picked up in my entire college experience at Mizzou was confidence. Every creative writing instructor I had encouraged me to pursue publishing. One English/Anthropologist professor asked to use my paper as an example for future students to emulate. A folklorist suggested I submit my final paper to a contest. A religious studies TA tried to talk me into grad school based on my essays. A medievalist did both. Of course I’m not going to grad school. I’m out of money, I have no desire to be a permanent academician, my wife would kill me and my kids would continue to wonder where I was. Basically no one at this address wants me to do any more school.

Now what?

I have no idea. After spending a lot of time reading, researching and thinking, I’ve decided literary success is a combination of skill, marketability and luck. Any book sold has at least a little of each, and if you want to sell enough books to make a living, you’d better have a lot of at least two. I’m doing my best with skill and marketability, both of which have dozens of layers and nuance and are tough to nail down.  Public tastes are always in flux, and currently the book market is also in turmoil. Then remember that I haven’t finished any novels ever, which might be a problem. It’s safe to say that the odds of being able to make a living writing fiction is roughly equivalent to successfully training a duck to operate heavy equipment. That is to say, it’s probably possible, but I would have to devote a lot of time to it and success is no guarantee. Maybe I will get a real job, maybe I will stay being a full time dad. Whatever options present, however, I will write. It’s just what I do.

Pomp and Circumstance

I am this close to graduating, but I will not be walking for so many reasons.

The Cap and Gown: I do not want to buy, rent, borrow, steal or barter for this ridiculous outfit. I am sure it made sense to someone some time, but I think it is one of the goofiest things a person could wear, and I am including bell bottom leisure suits and those absurdly oversized sunglasses in the list. Like a wedding gown, there will only be one time and place that this costume will be appropriate to wear. Like a wedding gown, sentimentality artificially inflates its value. Unlike a wedding gown, every single person looks silly in one. There are thousands of other items I would rather spend my wife’s resources on, like some new books or a nice wedge of artisan cheese.

Pomp and Circumstance: I just don’t like the song. Sir Edward Elger composed it for King Edward the VII’s coronation in 1901, and when he received an honorary doctorate from Yale in 1905 they played it as a recessional. Then Princeton played it, then the University of Chicago, and since all the cool kids were doing it, “Pomp and Circumstance” became the only tune that could possibly accompany a graduation. Over a hundred years later and we haven’t kicked the habit.

Commencement Speech: I don’t have anything against commencement speeches, but all the good ones are recorded and I prefer to listen to them in the comfort of my own home, where I have the option to turn it off if my pretentious BS meter blinks. At the actual ceremony you are a captive audience. I just don’t want to risk it.

Diplomas Don’t Matter: Transcripts matter. Letters of recommendation matter. Diplomas are no big deal, and they don’t even hand those out on graduation day. The ceremony is all symbolic posturing and no substance.

Who Is That Guy Anyway?: The chair of the English department will be the one handing out replicas of meaningless documents. He will be shaking hands. This will be the first time he has met the vast majority of the students he will greet that day, and he does this every year. I realize that he had more to do with my college experience than I can currently appreciate. Even so, I have no personal connection to him. It would mean more to me if my least favorite instructor handed me my fake diploma than for a stranger to do it, but that can’t happen because there are thousands of kids who have to walk, and they have to speed the process along.

Too Many People: In Spring 2013, 5,300 graduates walked. This makes the ceremony less of a celebration of individual achievement and more of a feat of logistical heroism. Every one of us worked hard to win our degrees, and each of us has a different story in how we got to this point. We did not do this as a collective, but as individuals, and each of us deserves individual recognition. We supposedly get that individual recognition, except we are all getting it at once which means that we all kind of bleed in together. Each person gets to go through the line like everyone else, gets their name announced in the same monotone voice, and we all get lost in the crowd of one another. It’s one of those rare moments when the sum becomes less than the parts, and I don’t feel like being swallowed up in the masses any more than I want to participate in devouring anyone else’s well deserved time. We are all special, but on graduation day, what is intended to be our moment of triumph, we become just another face.

Not My Style: I have never been a normal student. Out of high school I went straight into the Army, so when I wound up in college I was already a different kind of person; at orientation I was older and had been through more life threatening experiences than my chaperone. I was married by my sophomore year. I never hung out in the quad, never rushed for a fraternity, never played intramural sports, never joined a club, never lived in the dorm, never did any of the traditional college crap that everyone gets nostalgic about. I did all of that growing up and self-discovery in a different environment, with different people and different rules. My college experience was about getting grades and getting out, so the graduation ceremony simply doesn’t mean the same thing to me as it does to my traditional student peers.

I Love My Friends and Family Too Much to Make Them Sit Through This Thing: I actually don’t have anything to add to that.

Graduation is still a big deal, it’s just the official ceremony that I would like to skip. I worked hard to graduate. I ignored my wife and kids for this. I performed three different songs in sign language for this. I sat through “The Blair Witch Project” twice for this. I have invested too much into this lousy sheet of paper to not celebrate, I just won’t be doing it with thousands of strangers who don’t care about me and only a handful of people that do. Instead we will be throwing a party with people that have in some way contributed to my success, be it through childcare or emotional support, and thus have at least a small stake in me. There will be food. There will laughter. I may even cry a little. But there will be no silly outfits, outdated dirges, tired speeches or impersonal “recognition.” If you are reading this blog post you are invited, just holler for details.

The Premature Burial

Is it Friday already? I guess it is.

School laid into me with a vengeance. The textbook price is high, the reading list long, and as usual, the class that I am most interested in is the one with the lightest workload. Folklore has already demanded I sacrifice 300 words to its insatiable maw, forcing me to summarize reading. Introduction to the New Testament has exacted two pages, double spaced, explaining what I expect from the course. In my capstone class, Democracy and the Liberal Arts (selected because it best fit my busy schedule as a stay at home dad), I must research and present an article appropriate for the subject. What is the subject? I honestly don't know, but my instructor doesn't seem to know either so I guess I'm in good company. I haven't even gone to ASL III yet, that one only meets on Mondays, and I already tremble for the time it will devour. In short, my days are filled with short response papers and blackboard posts allowing little room for cooking, housework, and time with my beautiful bride and young progeny much less blogging.

I love you all, you mostly silently approving masses that adore my work. I don't want to let you down, but until May I don't anticipate having much time to ramble about writing craft or the philosophies of entertainment. I am buried alive under academic busy work. Give me a few months and I promise I will return from this ivory crypt and, hopefully, write a book.

See you on the other side.