SMOKING AND DREAMING

 

During this time Holmes spent some of his time smoking and dreaming in the cottage, but a greater portion in country walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours without remark as to where he had been. ----- "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot"

Like many people of my generation, I gave up smoking years ago. However, every now and again, I find myself tempted to smoke. Not because I have a physical craving for nicotine but because, like Holmes, I found that my imaginative thinking for problem solving seemed to work better as I sat (actually stood outside) and smoked. There was something about smoking that eased the deliberate act of choosing to stand still and creatively think. Perhaps it was about having something to do with my hands while my thoughts agitated. Perhaps it was about being confined to the smoking spot while my mind went out and abroad to wherever it wanted to go. 

Don't get me wrong. I hated everything about smoking (the smell, the mess, the bother, the cost, the sheer danger of it) except...well, smoking. I liked how my brain seemed to work and I liked the stress relief aspect of it. I was fortunate to never become a heavy smoker and when I decided to quit, I just did with very little fuss or bother. As I said, fortunate, especially considering all the bad that smoking can entail. But, still, I certainly understand Holmes's smoking-in-order-to-think processes.

Better Sherlockians than I am have written extensively about Holmes and his smoking and I certainly have nothing of any great importance to add to the body of work. Sometimes I think we gloss over how actually awful that much smoking must have been. We have fun talking about a "three-pipe problem" and being grossed out by Holmes's habit of a before-breakfast pipe composed of "all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before."  We never forget how much smoking he did in order to solve the problem of "The Man with the Twisted Lip":

He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed, and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag -tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old brier pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features.

And of course Watson was right there smoking with him. At this moment, I can't remember if Watson ever said he believed smoking helped him think and I'm too lazy to find out. I doubt it, though. Watson probably smoked because almost everyone smoked. Those rooms in Baker Street were probably a yellow mess that was not at all like the romantic "A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane As night descends upon this fabled street..."

Over the past three years as I've struggled to learn to write fiction I missed the smoking-thinking  more than ever. The only substitute I found for the the process was baking, especially bread. Kneading works almost as well as far as the hands busy and standing in a specific space aspects of the smoking. A few months ago I was having trouble nailing the opening of a story. I had written it at least a half dozen times and nothing seemed right.

I took a break to bake some pecan sticky buns--a good dough recipe that required some serious kneading. As I worked the dough my mind started to wander. For no specific reason this bit from Arthur Conan Doyle's "After Cormorants with a Camera" came to mind:

I had two stands — one a short ash tripod, the other an invention of my own, which I have found of great service in working the moorlands of Scotland. It simply consists of a stout walking-staff four feet long and shod with iron. This is fitted to the camera by means of an adjustable ball-and-socket joint. The advantages which I claim for this simple arrangement are not only its lightness (a consideration which will have weight with every practical worker in the open air) but also its cheapness, and the facility it affords for the focusing of a moving object. By it free movement is secured in every direction, both horizontal and vertical, while four inches of iron spike are sufficient to guarantee perfect steadiness.

There was something about that walking stick that gave me not only the opening to the story but the emotional make up of my lead character who carried it. He was a man who proved to be able to move in every direction as needed but to stay perfectly steady in himself. The opening of "Among The Ruins" eventually came to read like this:

I watched the dawn break above as I set out from Sparwick towards the ruins of the ancient Payneven manor house. I followed the footpath along the Windrush with the aid of my stout walking-staff, four feet long and shod with iron—an invention of a colleague of mine, the articulate one in South Norwood with photography as a hobby. He intended it as a camera stand, the camera fitted by means of an adjustable ball-and-socket joint, but I found it perfectly balanced for rough ground walking along the river.

Our poor fellow faced rough ground in many different ways along the river but that is a story for another day. 

I've lightened up on the baking in the last six months as the household was putting on a little too much weight. The bulk of the kneading had to stop. I've found lighter recipes that work best with hand mixing and that kinda works. It is not as effective as the kneading or the smoking but needs must.

I'll never go back to smoking like Holmes but I certainly hope that someday I get to go to Cornwall to take hours long country walks by myself like he did.  I have a Sherlockian friend who was able  to walk like Holmes in Cornwall for a week but that, too, is a story for another day.

 

 

 

Choosing From Among The Best

Arthur Conan Doyle & The Stark Munro Letters

(The Salt Lake Herald, Nov 3, 1894)

 

When Mattias Boström posted the above on Twitter this morning I had to laugh. I read it immediately following a conversation I had concerning this very topic: Is The Stark Munro Letters Doyle's best work? I don't know that I can unequivocally say yes because I haven't read all his work and I'm hardly qualified to make such a broad statement. I am willing to say that of the work I have read, Stark Munro is rapidly becoming my favorite of the lot. The Hound of the Baskervilles was once at the top of my Doyle rereading list. Now it is second on the list. Given a choice, I prefer to read Stark Munro again.

Stark Munro as my favorite Doyle book in no way diminishes my fondness for Sherlock Holmes; he is the foundation of my Sherlockian life, which is a living thing that goes far beyond the texts of a few books. When deep in the texts, though, Stark Munro shines for me.

A look at my working copy of the book (as always, I have one to abuse and one to save) certainly indicates I find value in it:

I have a tendency to put flags in books marking points I wish to remember. I thumb through the books and read around the markers for inspiration when I'm writing. This book gets a lot of attention from me because J. Stark Munro is trying to understand his place in the day-by-day, scratch-out-a-living world and his place in the vastness of the universe. He thinks it is important to understand each place. I do, too.

    My first flag is at the point where J. Stark Munro declares he is all of twenty two years old and

"...in all seriousness, without a touch of levity, and from the bottom of my soul, I assure you that I have at the present moment the very vaguest idea as to whence I have come from, whither I am going, or what I am here for. It is not for want of inquiry, or from indifference."

I am much older that twenty-two but I can only say "Me, too, Johnnie Munro, me, too."  I want the characters I write (outside the confines of the traditional Holmes/Watson pastiche) to have the very vaguest idea as well so that I might give their words and actions a ring of truth readers recognize.

Doyle's prose flows easily in this book. He writes with a deft touch, alternating between the young doctor's daily struggle to make ends meet and his larger struggle to define his faith or lack thereof. J. Stark Munro is a generous, caring man with a wry sense of humor. I would like to have him over for dinner.  

He is very much like Dr. John H. Watson except I think Watson isn't quite so introspective. I'm not sure Watson would have patience for all of Stark Munro's musings. Actually, I would like to have them both to dinner and find out. I have a place for each of them at my table and in my heart.

MY HEAD WHIRLS

Percy Phelps sank back in his chair.
'My head whirls,' said he; 'your words have dazed me.'

One day this past week I found myself identifying somewhat with the ridiculous Percy Phelps and his experience of receiving a thought changing surprise over breakfast. (OK, it might be a bit of a stretch, but humor me.) Dawdling over breakfast, the newspaper and Wordle done, I opened Twitter, and found this post, with photos from the Baker Street Journal, Volume 2, Number 4, 1947:

@ephemeracity

A charming short story written by Basil Rathbone in this 1947 issue of The Baker Street Journal titled “Daydream”. He imagines an accidental meeting with Sherlock Holmes following a sting from one of his bees whilst on holiday in Sussex #sherlockholmes

 

I immediately pulled the Journal from the shelf and read the story. The piece is delightful--beautifully written and imaginative. I was stunned. I suddenly needed to think about Basil Rathbone in a different light.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I've never thought very much about Basil Rathbone at all. I did not grow up watching his Sherlock Holmes movies on television and I've never watched them through to this date. I have trouble keeping track of which parts I've seen and which movie is which. Nigel Bruce as Watson always annoyed me so I mostly stayed away. (Although, as I've aged, I've started to see the charm of the films, including Bruce's portrayal.) The only real time I've given to Rathbone was while reading the parts about him within Mattias Bostrom's From Holmes to Sherlock. 

In my mind, Rathbone was probably a nice man and excellent actor who saw his career stunted by being typecast as Holmes. I filed him away as such in the brain attic and didn't pay much attention otherwise. After reading his "Daydream," I realized I needed to reconsider the man and the variety of his work. What else did he write that I should have read?

I felt somewhat better about my lack of awareness when I saw that several Sherlockians I admire made posts on Twitter about being unaware of Rathbone and "Daydream."  In the course of reading through some of the replies and comments, I saw this post from David Stuart Davies:

David Stuart Davies

I have it - but the fascinating thing is, Basil had just left the film and radio series because he was fed up playing the character and then writes this piece.

The emotional distance between the quitting of the work and the writing of the story is fascinating, too. Certainly he had an emotional connection to Holmes. I started creating symbolism into the dialogue of the story where perhaps none existed. Did the stinging bee--that died after stinging the narrator--represent Rathbone's experience playing Holmes?

"I'm sorry to see that you have been stung by one of my bees."
I smiled; the smile was intended to say that it didn't matter.
"You must forgive the little fellow," he continued. "He's paid for it with his life."
"It seems unfair that he should have had to," I said, hearing my own voice as if it had been someone else's.

It seems unfair that he should have had to. Hearing my own voice as if it had been some one else's. 

Yes, Mr. Rathbone, it is unfair that you should have had to endure what happened to your career and your ability to use your own voice. Your celebrity as Holmes came at a high price.

I do not know if he meant "Daydream" to say that the price didn't matter but I wonder, especially when reading this part that soon follows the conversation above:

The incident--for an incident it had become--was strangely tempered with magic.

Sherlockians know that Holmes's world is sometimes tempered with unexpected magic. Did Rathbone agree? As always, the only way for me to know is to read. And I will. 

I understand he penned an autobiography. I expect to start reading it after breakfast one day soon.

"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.”