Dave's Anatomy: My History as a Writer, #8: The Ghost of Christmas Present, or Taking Ideas from Famous Stories

After I published five stories in a row about my ongoing character, musician Sossity Chandler, I decided I needed to do something else. Ongoing characters are common. W. Somerset Maugham wrote several stories about Ashendon, a British spy. Not many people know that Mark Twain wrote two novels about Tom Sawyer after the publication of the initial book on him. Other authors have done the same, but I thought maybe I ought to branch out a little bit lest I get caught in a rut.

The Christmas holidays were approaching. Christmas is many things, but to those who read a lot it is also Dickens' famous novella, A Christmas Carol. Soon I had an idea for a new story.

Doing a spin-off story was nothing new for me. I said in an earlier blog that the first story I published, "The Girl Who Knew Nick Drake," was modeled on a Henry James story, "The Aspern Papers." But this would be a little different. It would reference a well-known piece of literature. It would continue the creative "conversation" on the piece. I had seen some spins on the story. The made-for-TV movie An American Christmas Carol set the story in the USA during the Great Depression. Everyone from Mickey Mouse to Mr. Magoo to the Muppets had been included in versions of the story. This story, however, would employ elements from the Dickens ghost tale and go off in a different direction from the original.

Doing this sort of thing is an old tradition. I often 

hear people talking about how Shakespeare "stole" all his plot lines from other authors. I once heard a poet tell about how William Wordsworth "stole" the idea for the poem "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" from his sister, Dorothy.  But the idea that every story must be original is a relatively new development. In the past, authors took elements from other stories, used plots, tropes, characters, and ideas freely. And even modern writers do. My favorite story, W. Somerset Maugham's "Mr. Know-All," borrows plot from "The Necklace" by Guy de Maupassant. Examples could be multiplied. But if you're going to communicate with an existing 

work of literature (I like this term better than "steal"), 

you'd better do it with a little bit of skill.

The story, "The Ghost of Christmas Present," appeared in a British magazine called Neonbeam (no longer published). It is about a lonely, down-and-out guy, Jerry, who receives a visitor on Christmas night. The young lady says she has no place to go. He assumes she is homeless. She is dressed retro (1960s) and doesn't know what a computer or bottled water is. Finally, she confesses that she is a ghost.

He looks up her story and finds out she was murdered after a rock concert some time back. Once it is established she is a ghosts, she quips, "I guess I could be the Ghost of Christmas Present."  He remembers how as a child he had thought this meant "present" as in "gift" and that the ghost brought people Christmas presents. Jerry goes to bed that night thinking he can't even score with a ghost girl and this Christmas will be like the others in his adult life:  lonely and disappointing. In the middle of the night, however, the girl materializes in his bed. She informs him that from midnight to about 3 a.m., ghosts have bodies and the two of them make love. She also tells him why she is a ghost. Pretty and sought-after in life, she led many young men on. One ended up committing suicide after she dumped him and, when she is later murdered, she can't go to her rest. Being with Jerry makes her realize that to "go on" she will have to do good. The good is showing him love, giving of herself, and then being willing to face the consequences (whatever they are) when she goes on to her reward.

Shakespeare also informs the story. She haunted the theater where the concert after which she was murdered was held. But when a church rented the place for a Christmas celebration, she was driven out and had to flee. At the beginning of Hamlet, when Horatio and his friends are speculating on whether or not they've really seen a ghost, one comments,

                                       Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
                                    Wherein our Savior's birth is celebrated,
                                    The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
                                    And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
                                    The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
                                    No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
                                    So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

Something about Christmas and ghosts doesn't jive. So the girl, whose name is Bari, is driven away and has to seek refuge in Jerry's house. Here is another instance of "stealing." But for writers, using other texts is par for the course.

Bari is able to go on—though she's not sure 

what awaits her later in the afterlife—because 

she has done good and shown love to someone. In the morning, Jerry gets a call from the only girl he ever dated inviting him to spend Christmas day with her. The Ghost of Christmas Present has indeed brought him a gift—the gift he wanted most of all.

Stories that reference familiar works of literature are risky. The author has to walk a fine line, not borrowing too much from the story, not crassly appropriating another author's content, but making, in a sense, a commentary on the possibilities an existing story opens up. "All books speaks of other books, and every author tells a story that has already been told," novelist and critic Umberto Eco once wrote. Stories have already been told, but they lead to innumerable tales that can proceed from the original. "The Ghost of Christmas Present" was like this. There have been other "takes" in my writing career. Appropriating ideas from well-known literary works, revising them, and recasting them is a great exercise for any writer to do.

Take a look at my newest book, Mother Hulda, a science fiction story based on a tale by the Brothers Grimm. 

Check out my Writer's Page for more titles. 

Comments are always welcome!

Narrative in W. Somerset Maughm's "Mr. Know-All"

Writing a short story is tricky. It is a juggling act. In five to seven pages, the author has to develop the characters, set out the plot, throw in some setting for mood and atmosphere, perhaps work in a symbol, create a theme for a story—and work in a narrative voice that will convey all of these things. One writing instructor I studied under said it’s like riding on a horse, blowing a trumpet, and juggling all at the same time. How can a person do it? I can’t exactly say, but I can suggest that it is narrative voice that accomplishes this, and a look at narrative voice and how to use it may help writers pull off the complexities of producing a successful short story.

Last time, my blog talked about "Fat," by Raymond Carver. This time I would like to look about a story that is tied with "Fat" for my favorite. It is a story I read in a Reader’s Digest book of short stories (it was not condensed, though) when I was visiting relatives and was bored. I thought the story was amazing and saw from the beginning that narrative voice stood out as the most remarkable feature of a remarkable tale.

The story of which I speak is "Mr. Know-All" by W. Somerset Maugham. It is the tale of a British traveler who has to share a room on a ship with a loud, obnoxious, "know-it-all" type.  The narrative  character is a stereotypical Brit:  quiet, reserved, slightly snobby, very private; his berth-mate, whom he thinks is an American but who turns out to be a British colonial, is just the opposite of these things. The stage is set for a conflict. Two opposite personalities are trapped on a passenger ship for a couple of weeks. The narrator’s antipathy is apparent from the onset. Here is the opening of the story:

I was prepared to dislike Max Kelada even before I knew him. The war had just finished and the passenger traffic in the ocean-going liners was heavy. Accommodation was very hard to get and you had to put up with whatever the agents chose to offer you. You could not hope for a cabin to yourself and I was thankful to be given one in which there were only two berths. But when I was told the name of my companion my heart sank. It suggested closed portholes and the night air rigidly excluded. It was bad enough to share a cabin for fourteen days with anyone (I was going from San Francisco to Yokohama), but I should have looked upon it with less dismay if my fellow passenger`s name had been Smith or Brown.

When I went on board I found Mr. Kelada`s luggage already below. I did not like the look of it; there were too many labels on the suit-cases, and the wardrobe trunk was too big. He had unpacked his toilet things, and I observed that he was a patron of the excellent Monsieur Coty; for I saw on the washing-stand his scent, his hair-wash, and his brilliantine. Mr. Kelada`s brushes, ebony with his monogram in gold, would have been all the better for a scrub. I did not at all like Mr. Kelada.

This long quotation is a brilliant set-up. Maugham punctuates the opening with negative phrases:  dislike, put up with, bad enough, did not like the look of it, did not at all like. He also indicates the snobbery of the narrator. He judges Kelada on his name. He sneers at the fact that he uses toiletries bought from the shelf (Coty products). He thinks his brush and comb look dirty. Maugham uses narrative voice to set up the conflict and let the reader know what a character is like. He is snobby. He is judgmental.

The story progresses. Mr. Kelada is a loud-mouth and a know-it-all. He talks incessantly. He thinks he can discourse on any subject whatsoever. You can’t avoid him. He dominates all conversations. People detest him and insult him by calling him "Mr. Know-All." He takes this title as a compliment.

During the course of the tale, the narrator encounters a lovely woman and her husband. He comments on how delicate and beautiful the woman is and also notes her modesty. Modesty, he says, shines her person and manner. And she is wearing a string of pearls. Kelada, we find out, is a pearl merchant and comments on how good the necklace looks because it is real. Mrs. Ramsey demurs and her husband says the pearls are culture (fake) pearls. An argument ensues. Kelada looks at the pearls through his jeweler’s glass, smiles, and is about to declare, on his authority as a gem merchant, that they are real.

Then he sees Mrs. Ramsey staring at him, wide-eyed, helpless, her fact so white the narrator says she looks as if she might faint. Realization strikes Kelada and he, the flaming egotist, says he was wrong. The pearls are not real. Everyone taunts and teases him for this. Mrs. Ramsey retires to her room with a headache.

  

                                                                                                        

from a film adaptation of "Mr. Know-All"

What we realize in the story is that Kelada is not Mr. Know-All; the narrator is. He thinks he knows everything but learns that Kelada is knowledgeable when he needs to be. Mrs. Ramsey is not modest—she has a boyfriend who has bought her a real pearl necklace. And the unnamed narrator is not such a good judge of character as he thinks he is. He changes. At the end of the story he asks the chastened Kelada (whose loud-mouth boasting almost ruined Mrs. Ramsey) if the pearls were real. He simply replies, "'If I had a pretty little wife I should not let her stay a year in New York while I went to Kobe.'" The narrator says, "At that moment, I did not entirely dislike Mr. Kelada." His English reserve provides some minor humor but he has learned his lesson, as has Kelada.

The story would not have succeeded so well without skillful narrative technique. In a mere six pages Maugham does the complicated juggling act and pulls it off magnificently. The key element in doing this is his brilliant manipulation of narrative.

We’ve looked at two first-person narrated stories. Can the same be done with third-person narration? Next time we will explore this in another of my favorite stories.

If you want to read "Mr. Know-All," the story is online here.

For your reading pleasure, and for some unique use of narrative text, read my novel, The Sorceress of the Northern Seas.

For more titles that make for good reading and great gifts, see my Writer's Page. You might like The Gallery, Strange Brew, or The Prophetess.

Writing Clichés, Part 2: Show, Don’t Tell

Everyone has heard it. If you’ve been to a writer’s

conference or participate in a writer’s group,

you’ve heard it multiple times. The utterance is, to writers, as strongly held a truth as the Christian belief that Jesus Christ rose from the dead, the Buddhist belief that Gautama Siddhartha became the Enlightened One, or the Muslim belief that Mohammad is God’s Prophet. Show, Don’t Tell. Even as I type out these words, this adage is being spoken somewhere in the world where writes gather. It is ubiquitous. It’s everywhere—at least everywhere writers congregate.

Like most advice that becomes proverbial, it is founded on good, solid practice. Young writers are taught not to say, “She was a very beautiful woman,” or “He was an extremely handsome man.” This is telling. Rather, they are to describe the people:  what color eyes and hair do they have, what can you say about their faces, their posture and bodies, their overall appearance. What is it that makes either one of the characters handsome or beautiful?

The same would be true of action-related scenes. “The wood was dangerous.” Again, this is telling—making a statement of fact. Better to say, “Wolves roamed the woods as well as bears and predatory cats. The uneven ground could cause one to slip, turn an ankle, and be immobilized; in which case, the predators would move in. Deep pits one could hardly see dotted the floor of the place. Poisonous snakes and spiders, rabid bats, disease-carrying insects abounded there.”

Showing is much better than telling. But like many principles in the writing world, it starts out as a helpful tool and then ends up being at best an annoying formula and at worst a misleading info-bit that closes down writing rather than opening it up. 

A few months ago in my writer’s group I read a story containing dialogue. It went something like this:

                        “Did you know about it before it happened?”

                        “I didn’t.”

                        “What do you think he will do next?”

                        I said I didn’t know.

Immediately came the perfunctory comment: “I said I didn’t know” was telling, not showing. After all, it’s always better to show, not tell. I had put that particular line in for stylistic reasons. Dialogue, like anything else, can get tiresome and needs to be broken up. Why not throw in a little telling now and then to do that? I think it works and didn’t change the lines. Sometimes you tell, sometimes you show.

A couple of the best opening lines I know are telling lines. George Orwell begins his novel 1984 with

Winston Smith and Big Brother

the line, “It was bright, cold day in April, and all the clocks were striking thirteen.” It would have been much less effective for Orwell to describe the clocks going off, the raw April weather, and the sunlight giving no warmth. Telling was just right for setting the mood. The beginning of Moby Dick by Herman Melville reads, “Call me Ishmael.”  It is imperative, of course, but it is a kind of telling, not a description. Somerset Maugham’s Cakes and Ale begins with what I think is one of the wittiest and most clever sentences in English novel writing:  “I have noticed that when someone asks for you on the telephone and, finding you out, leaves a message begging you to call him up the moment you come in, as it’s important, the matter is more often important to him than to you.” Brilliant. And it sets the tone of the whole novel. But it is all telling, not showing.

All three of the above authors were masters at description and character development. They knew how to show. But they also knew how to tell—how to give vital information, use information, and know when things needed to be directly communicated rather than got at by use of description, dialogue, or interaction of character.

My second favorite novel (after Wuthering Heights) is John Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman. The first postmodern novel written in English, it is a gripping, vivid story of a man and woman who transgress Victorian standards of sexuality and class to engage in love. And it is almost entirely telling.

Fowles’ narrator assumes a Victorian voice and speaks directly to the reader. There are marvelous descriptive scenes (the scene in The Undercliff, if you’ve read the book, is unequaled as description).

There is fabulous dialogue. Yet much of the time the narrator lectures the readers and waxes eloquent about all things Victorian. The novel has been a perpetual best-seller since it was first published in 1969. It is reprinted ever year and considered a work of great literary value. Telling, if done correctly, can accomplish a great deal.

Certainly young writers must be taught not to make the error of Bulwer-Lytton and begin a book by saying, “It was a dark and stormy night.” Describe the wind blowing, the clouds rolling through the sky, black and bare trees swaying, and torrents of water falling on cobblestones. But telling can be used strategically. As we grow in our abilities as writers, we should not leave the possibility of something well told out of our writing.

I'd love to hear your thoughts and responses on these ideas. Please

leave a reply. What do you think about showing and telling?

Get a copy of Strange Brew a novella that explores music, magic, love, and the past. Available in Kindle or Paperback.

If your tastes run to shorter pieces, read The Gallery--a novelette of love, music, art, and the undead. The perfect scary read for Halloween. 

 

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