About Writers, inspiration, writing technique

A Spooky Guy!

How many of us write with themes on our mind? Norman Mailer did.

The Spooky Art is a book on his writing history and process, and a commentary/diatribe on, as he puts it, “. . . one’s own foray into the nature of such matters as being and nothingness . . . the pitfalls of early success and how to cope with disastrous reviews . . .  identity and the occasional crises of identity.” And much more along these lines. And that’s only Part I.

Part II deals with genre and screenplays and journalism: “. . . some of the ways and by-ways down which writers search and/or flee from their more direct responsibility.” Part III, ‘Giants and Colleagues,’ is: “. . . a mix of thoughtful and/or shoot-from-the-hip candor about some of my contemporaries, rivals, and literary idols.” This is a book to be read in small bites, or you’ll drive yourself crazy.

Themes are important to him. He says of some of his early work: “I do not recognize the young man who wrote this book. I do not even like him very much, and yet I know he must be me because his themes are mine . . . I am not even without regard for him . . . he is close to saying the unsayable. The most terrible themes of my own life–the nearness of violence to creation and the whiff of murder just beyond the embrace of love–are his themes also.”

He recalls saying, in 1958: “I am imprisoned with a perception that will settle for nothing less than making a revolution in the consciousness of our time.” (Whoa!)

Yes, he was a man of ideas. He admires Truman Capote’s style, and also criticizes it as a way to enliven none-too-interesting characters (in In Cold Blood). I can’t comment on that. Cold Blood is another book I read fifty years ago. Of Capote, he says: “Capote wrote the best sentences of anyone of our generation. He had a lovely ear. He did not have a good mind. I don’t know if a large idea ever bothered him. But he did have a sense of time and place.”

Large ideas, aka themes . . . does my stuff have a theme? Other than: Life is rough. Deal with it.

An English teacher in seventh grade lectured us on what a book report should consist of. Too many, called on to read out our book report, gave a summation of plot. Mr. ?????–I see his face, I cannot recall his name–wanted to hear about a theme.

He terrorized me, I can tell you. After I gave too many reports on the Nancy Drew series of–YA, we call it now–mysteries, he said to me, isn’t it time you read something worthwhile? I felt humiliated. I plunged into Dickens and never looked at Nancy Drew again.

Dickens, did he have themes? He told tales. Tales published as a serial, that hooked readers and kept them coming back month after month. Tales full of dense description and characterization, both of which I enjoy. I suppose I could call him an influence.

I read a ton of Dickens. There were boring stretches, especially in Dombey and Son, but I plowed through them. Sooner or later the story picked up again. That was my impression then. I suppose I should read it again, see what I think of it now.

Ah. Google tells me Dickens’ themes are pollution and exploitation. His aim was to denounce the problems related to industrialization and pollution. Also: Social justice.

Mark Twain, did he have themes? His theme would have to be: We’re all human, all in the same boat. Hold on. I’ll look him up.

Here we go: “His novels express the importance of perseverance, loyalty, bravery, and friendship, and display a brilliant control of vernacular speech.” He wrote for the masses as well. For both these giants, writing was their bread and butter. They had to keep it coming, to pay the bills. Both men were born into poverty and had to make their way in an inhospitable world.

Hey. Same as Sly. It was a hard-knock life in the sixteenth century, and way worse for a cat with talent and ambition. He had to take care who he communicated with. He could end up burnt at the stake. Luckily, John Dee was a flexible thinker. Anyone who believes he talks to angels will not be thrown by a talking cat. Just say “Madimi sent me” and you’re good.

Dee’s angels were a quirky bunch. And Sly, when he was comfortable with you, was a terrific bullshitter. As good, I believe, as Norman Mailer.

Norman Mailer is certainly full of himself. He certainly doesn’t shy from blowing his own horn. He has big ideas. And looks with scorn upon those who don’t. He talks philosophy a lot. This is going to take some rereading. Half the time I don’t know what he’s saying.

Sly talks philosophy too. He was a Natural Philosopher, like Margaret Cavendish, called ‘the first female scientist.’ She lived about seventy-five years after him, but her ideas were timeless in terms of wackiness. She had an impulse to present her scholarship in verse. So does Sly.

I had intended to bulk this piece out (it earlier appeared too slight to me) with a snippet of his verse on his Natural Philosophy (the precursor to true science). The first two lines are stolen from Cavendish, the rest of two pages of verse are Sly’s. You can thank your lucky stars this article is now a thousand words. You are spared another of my endless pieces of verse in which Sly discusses his philosophy and slams the ‘Gown-ed Tribe’, the university-educated intellectuals who refuse to accept him into, as the head of Harvard College put it at my brother’s graduation (Radcliffe was still a separate entity, with a separate degree), ‘the Community of Learn-ed Men’.

I’m pretty intimidated by Mailer, me with my little ideas. But I’ll get over it. I always do, eventually. I’ll leave the heavy lifting to the literary titans. And make do with my nonsense.

“I am imprisoned with a perception that will settle for nothing less than making a revolution in the consciousness of our time.” These words would fit into Sly’s mouth nicely. And a bunch of other pronouncements as well. Thank you, Norman Mailer.

Mailer can keep his big ideas. I’m content to have big fun.

writing technique

These Dancing Feet.


Sue’s on-topic post makes me a bit ashamed of myself for my fun, but less-than-useful offerings.

While I try to write something serious on serials, (not sure I can manage it), here’s another (already written) Song-and-Dance (my default voice). After this, I’ll try to behave myself.


In Search of
(Silly) History. 


Creators of brave new worlds, those folks have an awful lot to figure out, science, geography, physicality, political structure, all that in addition to the main event, the going-somewhere story. In a real-world setting, much can be taken for granted. The surround needs only to be tailored, not assembled from scratch.

You might think that one who situates a well-worn fairy tale in a well-documented age has it easy. Well, sure, if you write Disney-style. I reconfigure history around the antics of a talking cat, which certainly suggests that flavor of fantasy.

In historical fiction, research is a given. I research also, diligently. I play with history, distorting, knotting, shredding. John Dee, a truly crackpot figure, interesting as hell, is ripe for a goof. I had my assassination episode mostly written, then I discovered Dee. That work is out the window, because what I’ve learned of him is too delicious to pass up.

He was Elizabeth’s Royal Astrologer. (Good.) He was a foremost scientist, the inventor of break-through tools for navigation. (Even better.) He believed he could communicate with angels. (Yahoo! If a man thinks he talks to angels, he may not fall apart when confronted by a conversational cat.)

He left notebooks full of coded entries and mysterious symbols – I swear to God, one of them has a cat in it. (My wildest prayers have been answered.) Scholars of the period speculate that Dee was an undercover operative for Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s Spymaster. If I didn’t adore reading history, if I had chosen to conceive a crank for my guy to butt heads with out of thin air, he would be amusing, but I would have missed a boatload of gorgeous possibilities. I do not balk at changing horses in mid-stream.

Dee is a fairly blank slate. Elizabeth is the other side of the coin. Reams are written on her. We think we know her, dignified, decorous, above all, regal. Most descriptions treat her gently. A marvelous few are brutal:

As a young woman, Elizabeth had been striking: slender, pale skinned, with masses of auburn locks, but the years had done their dirty work. Her hair now grew in patches. She wore wigs, caked her wrinkled, pocked face with cosmetics, and seldom laughed. An open mouth revealed broken, blackened teeth. Seemingly oblivious to her decline, she play-acted nubile desirability. 

She demanded constant reassurance that she had not decayed. If one would gain her favor, he must court her as if she were a girl of eighteen and honor her not only as the Queen of England, but as the Queen of Love. Her affectations, the ancient crepe-skinned bared breast, the ridiculous simpering, must be applauded. The sight of a gap-toothed crone, complexion smeared with the lethal white lead-based make-up of the period, must not engender other than an admiring fascination with the strange effect.

It’s the demented details of history that I adore, that I graft onto my critters and my plot. Biographies, in particular, can jumpstart a hundred ideas and most of them will be better than what you pull out of your hat.

I’ll wrap this up. Let others fret and sweat over the from-scratch world building, which I generally find as compelling as the painted backdrop of a stage play. I’ll tip-toe through the tulips of history and gather a sweet armful of easily-harvested grotesqueries, the intimate touches that bring a story to life.

I cannibalize history. It works for me. Give it a whirl.



I think this is a baptism, and it’s the best image I’ve dug up so far. I certainly don’t want William and Kate, which is what you mostly get when you google ‘Royal Christening’.

I am researching Catholic sects of the fifteenth-sixteenth centuries. My Inquisitor, blackmailed to perform a baptism on a cat for a dotty king’s peace of mind, will turn out to be a rebel, holding a heretical belief that animals have souls. He’ll be all for it, if it’s done quietly. He doesn’t want to endanger his cushy life as a high official of the established church. Beyond that, he’s pleased to cater to the king’s whims. It’s never a bad idea to make a firm friend of a monarch, even a minor one.

I could invent a sect, but, as I’ve said, I like my lunacy to have one foot (at least, one toe) in reality, and I’m sure that I’ll find other lovely stuff to sprinkle in.


It’s late, way after Vespers. Over an ornate font, used for every royal baptism of the past two centuries, a mysterious baby receives his splash in high style, in the traditional royal robe, cuddled in the arms of the king himself, no mother in attendance. Hmmm . . . Prince Bittor is here, a bit aside, looking very uncomfortable.

The few nobodies on hand are kept at a distance, none apprehending that the babe in arms is a cat. You know they’ve got to be muttering to themselves: “This is just as odd as it may be. Who can the child be?”


What a delightful question. I will most certainly think on it.