Paul Whybrow
Full Member
It's easier to write about discord than harmony, of dysfunctional families than those who get on well, in the same way as villains are more fun to create than do-gooder heroes, full of moral rectitude.
In creating the fifth novel in my Cornish Detective series, I fretted a little bit about writing a sex scene for my widowed protagonist detective, not out of embarrassment, more unsure about how to incorporate love and lust into a crime story heavy on mercilessness and gore. It was easier to write than I thought, possibly because these fictional characters have occupied my mind for six years.
I'm now looking ahead to Book 6, pondering how to portray my hero's new state of contentment at being in a nurturing relationship. It took him a while to find ways to cope with missing the love of his life, who was killed in a freak road accident, but he's adapted to singledom by his love of motorcycling, painting, wild gardening and wild swimming and learning to play the guitar.
As a detective, he's an eccentric Bohemian, unlike the normal drunken, gambling, womanising loose cannon that lurch through many crime novels. He's known his new female partner for a long time, meeting her as a witness in Book 1, which was set in 2012, but their communication has been by email and Skype, as she'd returned to America, so they still have a lot to learn about one another. Initially, she'll keep her distance, living in a cottage two miles away. At the moment, I'm unsure about them sharing a home, or getting married...or even me bumping her off!
I've been trying to think of stories in which domestic bliss is well written. The first characters who came to mind, were subterranean dwellers—Mole, Otter, Ratty and Badger in The Wind In the Willows. Then, the Hobbits, who are mutually supportive on their journey, talking often of their village Hobbiton, which is an idyllic place.
While pondering this, I came across an announcement that, in 2015, Seamus Heaney's poem 'When All The Others Were Away At Mass' was chosen as the favourite Irish poem of the previous century.
When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives-
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
Seamus Heaney
A simple scene that transcends what's actually described, showing the intimacy of the couple sharing a domestic chore.
It reminded me, somewhat, of Barbara Kingsolver's non-fiction journal of her family's attempt to eat only locally grown food for an entire year, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life. Reading it made me salivate, sad that I don't have the land to cultivate, and admiring how she and her family pull together to harvest, preserve, market and cook what they grow. It's a great portrayal of the unity and harmony that living off the land engenders. @robinneweiss you'd love it!
Living with an awareness of the land and wildlife, surrounded by a slightly loopy family, can be found in My Family & Other Animals by Gerald Durrell.
In modern literary fiction, it's hard to think of stories that depict joyful families, let alone those which allow a happy ending. Authors appear to feel compelled to dump a stinking dollop of gloom on their characters, just before they type The End. Certainly, with the complexity of life, not everything works out for the best, and someone has to describe the disappointments, the darkness and bleakness, though that's a poor way of encouraging people to read.
As I said before, it's simply easier to write about nasty things....the ink flows quicker, burning messages into readers' souls. French writer Henry de Montherlant summed up the problem of writing about happiness:
"Happiness writes in white ink on white pages."
Have you written any stories or poems, for whatever age of reader, featuring a happy family?
Can you think of any novels that describe domestic bliss in a believable way?
In creating the fifth novel in my Cornish Detective series, I fretted a little bit about writing a sex scene for my widowed protagonist detective, not out of embarrassment, more unsure about how to incorporate love and lust into a crime story heavy on mercilessness and gore. It was easier to write than I thought, possibly because these fictional characters have occupied my mind for six years.
I'm now looking ahead to Book 6, pondering how to portray my hero's new state of contentment at being in a nurturing relationship. It took him a while to find ways to cope with missing the love of his life, who was killed in a freak road accident, but he's adapted to singledom by his love of motorcycling, painting, wild gardening and wild swimming and learning to play the guitar.
As a detective, he's an eccentric Bohemian, unlike the normal drunken, gambling, womanising loose cannon that lurch through many crime novels. He's known his new female partner for a long time, meeting her as a witness in Book 1, which was set in 2012, but their communication has been by email and Skype, as she'd returned to America, so they still have a lot to learn about one another. Initially, she'll keep her distance, living in a cottage two miles away. At the moment, I'm unsure about them sharing a home, or getting married...or even me bumping her off!
I've been trying to think of stories in which domestic bliss is well written. The first characters who came to mind, were subterranean dwellers—Mole, Otter, Ratty and Badger in The Wind In the Willows. Then, the Hobbits, who are mutually supportive on their journey, talking often of their village Hobbiton, which is an idyllic place.
While pondering this, I came across an announcement that, in 2015, Seamus Heaney's poem 'When All The Others Were Away At Mass' was chosen as the favourite Irish poem of the previous century.
When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives-
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
Seamus Heaney
A simple scene that transcends what's actually described, showing the intimacy of the couple sharing a domestic chore.
It reminded me, somewhat, of Barbara Kingsolver's non-fiction journal of her family's attempt to eat only locally grown food for an entire year, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life. Reading it made me salivate, sad that I don't have the land to cultivate, and admiring how she and her family pull together to harvest, preserve, market and cook what they grow. It's a great portrayal of the unity and harmony that living off the land engenders. @robinneweiss you'd love it!
Living with an awareness of the land and wildlife, surrounded by a slightly loopy family, can be found in My Family & Other Animals by Gerald Durrell.
In modern literary fiction, it's hard to think of stories that depict joyful families, let alone those which allow a happy ending. Authors appear to feel compelled to dump a stinking dollop of gloom on their characters, just before they type The End. Certainly, with the complexity of life, not everything works out for the best, and someone has to describe the disappointments, the darkness and bleakness, though that's a poor way of encouraging people to read.
As I said before, it's simply easier to write about nasty things....the ink flows quicker, burning messages into readers' souls. French writer Henry de Montherlant summed up the problem of writing about happiness:
"Happiness writes in white ink on white pages."
Have you written any stories or poems, for whatever age of reader, featuring a happy family?
Can you think of any novels that describe domestic bliss in a believable way?
