"I DID WRITE IT. WHY SHOULD I DENY IT?"

"You acknowledge now that you wrote it?"
"Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of words. "I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed of it."--Dr Watson speaking with Mrs Laura Lyons

As I've written about almost constantly since I started this blog thirteen months ago, I've been working on two manuscripts: a collection of Gothic tales inspired by Arthur Conan Doyle's work in The Strand, and a collection of Sherlock Holmes pastiches. The manuscript for the Gothic book, The Genius of the Place, went off to the publisher last month.  This week I finally finished the other one, With Remarkable Cunning: "The Manservant of Merripit House" & Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes. Barring disaster, both books should launch sometime this fall. 

When I started the process, I assumed the Holmes book would be the easier one to write. I was wrong. The Gothic was challenging and painstakingly slow but the characters and their stories seemed to flow in their own rhythm. I found the hard work to be unexpectedly good fun. In contrast, the Holmes book proved to be a bit of a slog. I worried constantly about repetition and about the differences between homage and imitation. The Holmes world seemingly has so many expectations built into the process, especially in the pastiche form. It takes a confident hand to go at it.

I've always found it interesting that Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are presented as writers immediately in A Study in Scarlet. Arthur Conan Doyle didn't muck about with it; I like how he didn't explain how and why they were writers. He just established it as a given from the very beginning:

Sherlock Holmes: "You would lose your money," Holmes remarked calmly. "As for the article, I wrote it myself."

Dr Watson: 'It is wonderful!' I cried. 'Your merits should be publicly recognized. You should publish an account of the case. If you won't, I will for you.' 

They went on to write again and again, Holmes with his monographs and Watson with his romantic tales of adventure. Neither one seemed too concerned about the reaction of the public.  I love the confidence they had to just write.  I think it is the right attitude to adopt. Confidence, not arrogance, is the key.

Confidence in writing was on my mind in the past few weeks as I fashioned an introduction for Remarkable Cunning. I didn't want to go over old ground  in Holmes's and Watson's history, or go on and on about the stories to follow. I wanted to succinctly explain the thought process behind the style chosen for the book and what a reader should expect. I think I nailed it. Time will tell.

I know what I've done won't appeal to every one but I "have no reason to be ashamed of it."   My Holmes manuscript is currently out to four extremely talented Sherlockian authors for advance reading. I hope, of course, that they find value in the work. All I can do now is (confidently) wait.

I've included the short introduction below (as it exists at the moment--the manuscript is not 100% finalized yet) should you be curious.

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Again, we have heard much, or at least something not quite common, about a man whom we have never seen, and hence we look around with curiosity when we are told he is present; whatever he says or does before us is charged with a meaning due to our previous hearsay knowledge about him, gathered either from dialogue of which he was expressly and emphatically the subject, or from incidental remark, or from general report either in or out of print.—George Eliot, “Story-Telling”

Yes, we have heard much about Sherlock Holmes, in a thousand different ways and yet we do not seem to tire of him. The aura about him that is “something not quite common” draws us in to read one more theoretical essay or one more imagined adventure. He is a man “whom we have never seen” and therefore the essays must remain theoretical and the adventures imagined.

           The question then for the writer seeking to create imagined adventures for Sherlock Holmes becomes one of fashioning. How does one fashion yet one more adventure for Sherlock Holmes that will interest an audience still,  despite  the seemingly endless examples from which the reader may choose and the late date—more than one hundred and thirty-five years have passed since the first words about Sherlock Holmes appeared in print near Christmas 1887.

           I resisted writing Sherlock Holmes adventure stories for a long time, believing there were perhaps too many of them in the world and perhaps all that could be said about him had been said, for better or worse. I especially had no interest in pastiche, certain it would be next to impossible to find a writing rhythm and word structure that were respectful enough of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s original work.

           After spending hours and hours and hours with the Holmes Canon, I eventually could not resist the temptation. I wanted to try writing original pastiches that were fun for the reader and still courteous to Doyle. But how to do it?   

           As early as 1911, Monsignor Ronald A. Knox explained what he saw as the necessary eleven elements to construct a proper Sherlock Holmes tale and many a writer, including the self-imitating Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, went on to repeat the elements again and again, sometimes to great success.

           While many a modern writer and reader no longer find what Knox called “...the literary antecedents of this form of art...” to be necessary for a successful Sherlockian pastiche, there remains a group of writers and readers for whom the traditional structure is desirable. I mostly agree.

           With Remarkable Cunning—“The Manservant of Merripit House” & Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes is a collection of pastiches constructed in homage to the traditional form. I found a process that works for me: studying the source material again and again, and then carefully considering if any words I use would be at home within it—it is an excruciatingly slow way of doing things. The Arthur Conan Doyle Encyclopedia made searching for Canon word/phrase use possible, and I am forever grateful. After many months, the stories finally took shape with (hopefully) enough originality and creativity to please a wide range of Sherlockian readers.

           In the search for my process, I made the conscious decision to not write stories with many of the characters most commonly found in Sherlockian pastiche—Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs Hudson, Professor Moriarty, and Irene Adler are not present in this book. One of them may be mentioned vaguely, perhaps in reference to a previous case, but they are never on stage. The stories are written so that Doctor Watson’s marital status is not relevant. Deerstalkers are not to be found; the only dressing-gown is worn by Watson, once, and not at Baker Street. These characters and tropes are well-loved but they are also well-used. I sent them on a little holiday.

           What is found here is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson doing what they do best and doing it together. The stories cover a period from mid-1890 through to the beginning of 1919—a long time of cooperation and companionship. They are colleagues and the best of friends who work together to resolve the mysteries at hand.

           As Eliot wrote near the end of the “Story-Telling” essay, “Why should a story not be told in the most irregular fashion that an author’s idiosyncrasy may prompt, provided that he give us what we can enjoy?”

           Why not, indeed.  May you enjoy this idiosyncrasy. I enjoyed writing it for you. As Sherlock Holmes said, “We can but try.”

 

 

 HERE WAS ONE OF MY FIXED POINTS

There were two guides given us to start with, an oak and an elm. As to the oak, there could be no question at all. Right in front of the house, upon the left-hand side of the drive, there stood a patriarch among oaks, one of the most magnificent trees that I have ever seen.
"That was there when your Ritual was drawn up?" said I, as we drove past it.
"It was there at the Norman Conquest, in all probability," he answered. "It has a girth of 23 ft."
"Here was one of my fixed points secured."

As with many Sherlockians, I have an inordinate fondness for the Sherlock Holmes statement to Watson from "His Last Bow": "Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age." We know what Holmes means by this. Watson does not change (much), he can be predictable (most of the time), he can miss the point (not always), he can be trusted (always). Holmes depends on Watson to be that fixed point, and so do we; as Holmes said elsewhere, "You always keep us flat-footed on the ground."

Holmes also speaks of fixed points in "The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual," meaning the patriarch oak of indeterminate age, and the "old elm" already taken to the ground by lightening.  I like the opening part of this fixed point identification because Holmes says, "There were two guides given us to start with..."

I was given two guides when I first joined in the Sherlockian world, one local (the patriarch oak) and, later, one distant (the old elm, struck down too soon). First, the oak: David Haugen, President-For-Life of the Sound of the Baskervilles. I first met David in 2007 when I ventured out to my first scion meeting. I knew nothing about being part of a Sherlockian society. 

He had been president of the SOBs for about twenty-five years at that point. He was (and is) a kind, compassionate, generous and dependable man. He taught me how to be a good member of a scion and he taught me a great deal about Holmes and Watson. His faithful leadership has kept the SOBs flat-footed on the ground for more than 40 years. 

In 2013, Don Libey, the founding "Buttons" of the John H Watson Society, came into my virtual life. Buttons was a gregarious, brilliant, funny and generous man. We became instant friends, emailing almost daily until his premature death in 2015--the old elm, struck down too soon.  Buttons gave me the encouragement I needed to step out of the comfort of my local group and to engage with other parts of the Sherlockian world. He taught me an appreciation for Sherlockian scholarship that I did not have prior to our friendship. The scholarship had been a distant thing that I vaguely knew existed. He taught me to seek it out and to apply it to my Sherlockian thinking. I still miss him very much.

I often think of him this time of year because the anniversary of his passing falls on March 15. Concern for my other guide weighs on my mind right now as well.  This past Sunday was the SOBs 43rd anniversary; it was the group's fourth in-person meeting since resuming in-person meetings this fall after an almost three-year hiatus. We were excited; we ordered celebratory cake. Sadly, David was not with us. He has been unwell. I can only hope he is able to return to us soon. David is, for me, an institution in my Sherlockian life, somewhat as Watson was for Holmes:

He was a man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. As an institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less excusable.

The Sound of the Baskervilles is my home in the Sherlockian world, the existing fixed point representing the other more ethereal fixed points of my Sherlockiana: John H Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Arthur Conan Doyle. I think of them as Caesar thought of himself (well, actually, as Shakespeare imagined Caesar thinking of himself):

But I am constant as the Northern Star,
Of whose true fixed and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.
The skies are painted with unnumbered sparks;
They are all fire, and every one doth shine;
But there’s but one in all doth hold his place.

Constant as the Northern Star. I like that. The word constant makes me think of what Stamford told Watson :

"You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet,' he said; 'perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion."

Oh, Stamford, trust me on this one: the constant companionship of Sherlock Holmes and his people is always in demand here.

  'WELL, WELL, WE HAVE MADE A BEGINNING.'

Yes, I've used a quote from "The Adventure of the Creeping Man" and an illustration from the opening of A Study in Scarlet, an odd mixture of time and temperament, but the two together seem to fit my thoughts today. Beginnings and combinations are on my mind. I've been working on a Sherlock Holmes pastiche for a week now.  Due to the story being set over a few days in March prior to the ill-fated trip to Switzerland, Watson's participation must be minimal if the mixture of time and temperament is to align closely enough with the beginning of "The Adventure of the Final Problem." 

The final problem for me, then, becomes how to tell the bulk of the story without Watson but still have Watson involved in some way. The Canon has two fine examples of this with "The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual" and "The Adventure of the 'Gloria Scott'" but I want Watson to have a little bite of the action, something he does not get in these two examples.

I decided to write the story backward. The story opens as Watson comes in at the very end of the case (at Holmes's request) to play a part in the exciting bit, and then we retire to Baker Street for Holmes to explain all that came before.  The exciting bit practically wrote itself. It works. But, the what-came-before explanation is proving to be a challenge. The old maxim of "show, don't tell" becomes very important to make this part work well and I would like to avoid a long stream of double quote marks.

Last night, as I sat at the desk without a clear direction for my story, I was thumbing pages in the Canon (looking for inspiration or, failing that, to be entertained) and I thought about something the wonderful Bob Katz said yesterday at the meeting of the Crew of the Barque Lone Star. He mentioned that when he prepares a story discussion, he always looks closely at the very beginning of the story because so much of what really matters can usually be found there. 

As it happened yesterday, the entire twenty minute discussion period for "The Adventure of the Three Students" focused on the very beginning of the story, and the discussion could probably have gone on for another twenty minutes. I found it fascinating how he separated out the opening elements of what is not generally considered to be a very interesting story and made those short paragraphs worthy of a lively discussion. 

I wondered if I could find unexpected treasure in the beginning of a story that I don't particularly care for. As I dislike "The Mazarin Stone" the most, I started there. In my memory, there was only thing of value in that entire story. Holmes tells Watson:

 "And you will, for you have never failed to play the game."

I love that line and keep it close to my heart. I wondered what else might be there in the immediate beginning that I have not given enough thought to or appreciated?

OK, maybe this: the part about being pleased to dine at "Seven-thirty, the day after tomorrow" is funny and memorable. (Although my memory somehow wants to put it with the "By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at seven-thirty" in 3STU.) 

The Watson-never-failing comes in at about the 1850 word mark. It is a little far out to be considered part of the very beginning of a 6280 word story. The pleased-to-dine charmer is at the beginning, only 240 or so words in. In between (about 520 words) we have the wonderful line from the "young but very wise and tactful page" about Sherlock Holmes: 

 "Mr. Holmes always knows what there is to know."

Even with these three lines, I still don't find much to be interested in. I don't think I could talk about the opening for twenty minutes. Once Holmes joins the conversation three paragraphs on from the page's clever remark, the story's down-hill trajectory picks up speed, aided by the stilted dialogue and ridiculous prank staging. 

Bob Katz could make something interesting of this opening. I don't think I can. Perhaps if the story had been narrated by Watson it might have been more readable. Maybe. On the bright side, I was reading the story within Klinger's "The Sherlock Holmes Reference Library," and the notes are well worth reading again even if the story itself is mostly unpalatable. 

The time was well spent even if it didn't result in any movement forward on the beginning of the end of my own story. Today I will read MUSG and GLOR again to study how Arthur Conan Doyle structured a flashback story, and I will read LAST again to study how he structured a good  story (as opposed to MAZA) without Watson or Holmes as narrator. 

Mostly this brings me back to a quote from Vincent Van Gogh that I always keep by my writing desk where I can see it:

"I keep making what I can't do yet in order to learn to be able to do it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 IF THEIR INTENTIONS ARE EVIL THEY MIGHT DO YOU A MISCHIEF

"I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in London, and amid the millions of this great city it is difficult to discover who these people are or what their object can be.  If their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief, and we should be powerless to prevent it."

Before going on to today's musing, I must first ask you: is that first line not the best pun in the entire Sherlock Holmes Canon? "...you are being dogged..."; you being, of course, Henry Baskerville, of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Makes me happy every time I read it.

Anyway, back to business.

I sent my manuscript for The Genius of the Place out to three very kind people in the last couple of weeks: one has graciously agreed to write a foreword, another has said he is happy to craft a blurb, and the third is brave enough to do a word-for-word proof read. These three people are very nice, very capable and very professional. I've been on pins and needles waiting to hear their verdicts as to the quality of the thing. (Imposter syndrome is having a grand time in my head at the moment.)

The anxiety has me thinking once again about the tyranny of the internet rating and review business. If I'm going to have the guts to publish the book then I've got to get the skin thick enough to deal with what people have to say about it. I dread the entire idea of the star ratings and reviews. Although I've published eleven pieces in different collections at this point and have another pending, Genius will be my first go at a solo book.

I noticed this week on Twitter that several authors I admire (and that I know do stellar work) mentioned the need for a review on Amazon; another at a Zoom offered a free copy of his book if one were willing to provide an Amazon or Good Reads review. The searching for ratings and reviews must be so tiring, and then one has to deal with the ones that actually appear.

Of course writers have always had to deal with critics but the internet ratings and reviews posted from who-knows-where is a different thing. Thoughtful readers will have (I hope, anyway) good intentions and will write carefully and truthfully about what they read. The anonymous star punchers, the simply bewildered, and the army of haters may have very different intentions from the thoughtful readers. They might, as Sherlock Holmes said, "...do you a mischief."

I've watched on Twitter as the delightful David Stuart Davies has dealt tactfully with a small cadre of complainers because the publishing company was slow to ship orders of his updated Bending the Willow. As if the author can do one thing about that?  But the bewildered and the angry have been fussing at him anyway. I wonder if any of them put poor ratings about the book somewhere because the shipping was slow? I hope not.

I had someone write to me about "Whitney's Reflection"; she didn't say she enjoyed the story, but she did say:

"I did get a chance to read your story, and I can see why it's a winner! Short stories seem so hard to me; you have to be so concise. Your language is all so intentional and there's so many atmospheric elements in it." 

I can tell it was not her cup of tea but I appreciate her words anyway. They were fair and considered and kind. Fair, considered and kind is the best kind of response. And yes, the language was all so intentional and I love that she saw that. Her remark helps me have faith in the rest of the work. 

Speaking of intentions, my intention has been, since April 22 of last year, to have The Genius of the Place  off to the publisher on March 31. I expect to be anxiety driven for a long while after. Watson once said:

"Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist in his better work, even as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high level to which he aspired."

I have no idea what he means by "impersonal joy." If you need me, I'll be over here mourning darkly.